| |
The Spanish port of Málaga was normally a forty-five minute drive up the coast. But with traffic being so light this early in the morning and with speeds averaging eighty-five miles per hour, Barraza and his men arrived in just over twenty.
The pedigree of the port was impressive, with the Phoenicians being there as early as 1000 BC. But after its rise over the centuries to become a major European port, Málaga found itself overshadowed by the northern industrial powerhouses of Rotterdam and Hamburg, which in turn surrendered dominance to the Asian super-ports of Shanghai, Singapore, and Hong Kong.
Looking from the city toward the sea, the port had two modest, triangular-shaped harbors. In the harbor to the left were quays 1 and 2. In the harbor to the right were quays 4, 5, and 6. The Providenija was berthed at Quay 6, on the inside of a small concrete peninsula projecting out into the water.
Accompanied by two officers of the SVA – the Servicio de Vigilancia Aduanera – the Spanish “Customs Surveillance Service” – Barraza’s motorcade of seven cars passed through the security gate and roared out onto the peninsula. Several tower cranes stood silently in the darkness of the quay, while the Providenija itself, which was moored with thick ropes, was festooned with lights. A black van was parked at the foot of an aluminum gangway that angled up to the stern of the freighter. Barraza stopped near the rear door of the van and directed the beam of his flashlight onto the license tag. “The Americans,” he said. “They are here.”
Piling out of their vehicles, Barraza and his men followed the two SVA officers up the noisy gangway onto the elevated quarterdeck of the ship, where four stories of superstructure rose above them. They stepped through a hatch and climbed up the flight of steel mesh steps to the top floor, where the ship’s bridge was located. Positioned like a penthouse across the entire top of the superstructure, the bridge was the command center of the freighter. Windows looked out over the massive deck of the ship. On the flat roof of the bridge was a forest of antennae and weather instruments. Inside, counters of radar screens, navigation equipment, and controls were lit up with glowing lights. Charts and maps were laid out on a large square table.
Barraza barged into the room holding his badge for everyone to see. He demanded to speak with the captain.
“I’m the captain,” growled a burly, bald-headed man. Dressed in bib coveralls and a stained white singlet, he had been studying a map with the pilot and helmsman.
Barraza told the captain they had a Customs warrant to search the ship. “Or,” he added, “you can take us immediately to Colonel Talanov and Major Babikov and save us all a lot of time and trouble.”
“I know of no such men,” said the captain.
“Then you leave me no choice but to search the ship.”
“No one searches my ship,” said the captain, who outweighed Barraza by a good sixty pounds and stood a full head taller. His neck was as thick as Barraza’s thigh.
With the attitude of a Jack Russell taking on an ox, Barraza held up the warrant. “This allows me to do whatever I wish.”
“Your paper means nothing,” said the captain. “You are standing in the Soviet Union.”
“And you’re sitting in Spanish waters. Which means you’re going nowhere until I say so.”
The two men glared at one another for a long moment. It was a standoff, with Barraza’s men and the two merchant marine officers wondering who would blink first.
“Talanov and Babikov. Where are they?” demanded Barraza.
“I told you. I know of no such men.”
“Whose vehicle is that on the wharf?”
“How would I know?”
“It’s parked in front of your ship!”
“If it had been parked on a Soviet wharf, I would know. But it is parked on a Spanish wharf. You figure it out. If I had known it was there, I would have stripped it of its parts.”
Barraza ultimately won the contest of insults and wills, and each room in the ship’s accommodation was thoroughly searched, including the captain’s quarters. Every door and hatch was unlocked and opened. Visual inspections were made of the kitchen, TV room, clinic, lower decks, engine room and hold. Every corridor, crawlspace, storeroom, ladder, stairwell, cabinet, air duct, storage compartment and locker was further scrutinized. No potential hiding place was overlooked. Talanov and Babikov were nowhere to be found.
As Barraza stood on the deck of the freighter gazing south toward the inky waters of the Mediterranean, he heard the banging of a halyard on an aluminum mast. Looking left toward the noise, he saw the silhouettes of numerous sailboats and powerboats moored on the far side of the bay. Farther to the south was a tiny harbor filled with more sailboats. Could Talanov and Babikov be hiding in one of those boats, waiting for the freighter to exit the port’s narrow strait? In the darkness before dawn, it would be an easy task for a small craft to come alongside the slow-moving freighter. An easy task for Talanov and Babikov to climb up the ladder that would be lowered for them.
Looking again at the van parked below on the wharf, Barraza realized he had fallen for Talanov’s diversion. By convincing Franco to park his vehicle in plain sight near the freighter, he knew exactly what would happen: anyone following would assume they were hiding on the freighter. Since they weren’t, no amount of searching would produce any results, and the ship would be cleared to sail, leaving the door open for a boarding at sea.
Barraza cursed to himself because he knew he had been played. Again. Talanov had laid down the bait and he had pounced. But as clever as Talanov had been, his little scheme had a glaring weakness: if they wanted to board this ship, sooner or later they would have to emerge. And when they did, he and his men would be waiting.
