Cabrillo too was disguised as he stood next to the harbor pilot overseeing the final stages of docking the ship. His skin was darker than normal, and his hair and thin mustache were nearly black. His eyes were made brown with contact lenses.
The pilot keyed his walkie-talkie. “Okay, snug fore and aft lines.” He crossed through the bridge to the starboard side, switched channels on his radio, and told the tug pressing the freighter to the big Yokohama fenders to back off. He turned to Cabrillo, extending a hand, “Welcome back, Captain Mohamed.”
Cabrillo shook it, and the pilot pocketed the pair of hundred-dollar bills as smoothly as he handled the ship. There was no inherent need to bribe the pilot, since this is the last time the Ibis would ever dock in Iraq, or any other port in the world, but the Chairman liked to keep up appearances.
On the dock down below sat an eighteen-wheeler, with a container on its flatbed trailer, and two Toyota minivans that looked as though their odometers passed a hundred thousand about ten years ago. A sedan parked near them didn’t look much younger. Towering over everything was a skeletal crane with a boom that could stretch fifty feet over the water. Lights rigged from it bathed the dock in an artificial twilight. This was an older section of the harbor. The cranes for unloading containers from the massive panamax freighters were farther up the roads. The tankers, which made up the largest portion of traffic coming into and out of Umm Qasr, were loaded out at sea using pipelines.
Juan had his own handheld radio, and he called down to the men near the gangway to lower the crane. It rattled through its chain fall and came to rest on the concrete pier. “If you will excuse me…”
“Of course.” The pilot stepped aside to wait for the captain to conclude his business on the dock. He would then guide the ship back out into the open waters of the Gulf beyond the al-Başrah Oil Terminal.
Cabrillo took a second to square his uniform shirt into his black trousers and make sure his shoulder boards were even. Eddie Seng met them at the head of the gangway. He acted as first officer on the Ibis, while Hali Kasim played that role on the other two incarnations of the Oregon in this grand ruse.
The two men strode down the gangplank together. A customs official, this one truly corrupt, stood by as men piled out of the minivans. There were no visible weapons, but Cabrillo knew all of them were armed.
That was the other tricky aspect to this whole deal. Three different criminal syndicates collectively owned The Container along with their unknown American partner or partners. No one trusted one another, so there was tension on the dock even without the presence of a container full of cash. No one spoke as a few minutes elapsed. Then three more vehicles approached. They were all Mercedes SUVs, black with dark-tinted windows. Each would be as well protected as a bank’s armored car.
The bosses had arrived. More guards alighted from the vehicles when they stopped, and these men did nothing to hide the compact submachine guns they carried. Finally, the crime lords themselves exited from the backseats of their SUVs. They wore casual, Western-style clothes and looked as innocuous as tea merchants. Each was followed by a Westerner. These men were larger than their Iraqi hosts, and while they wore civilian clothing, each moved with military precision. They wore baseball caps pulled low and wraparound sunglasses despite the sun having set an hour before.
As Ali Mohamed, Cabrillo greeted the three crime bosses by name. He’d met two of them in the past and had dealt with the other’s son on previous deals. That boss was well into his seventies and his son was about to take over, but for something as significant as The Container, he wanted to be here himself.
After the flowery exchange of greetings and displays of respect, the men turned earnest. Cabrillo pointedly wasn’t introduced to the Westerners, and these men remained well back from the base of the gangway.
“I see more than four guards here,” Cabrillo said at length. “That was our deal, four men only.”
“Do not worry, my dear captain,” the boss from Baghdad said. “Until this container is on the ship and away from port, we like to afford it extra protection. You will only have four men with it on the ship, as promised.”
“I wish them to be unarmed,” Cabrillo pressed. This had been a negotiating point from the beginning.
“I wish it too, but, alas, we must insist. What was it Ronald Reagan once said, ‘trust, but verify’? Four groups are represented here, four men on your ship, as well as four guns to, ah, verify, yes? Perhaps you will need their help if you are attacked by those mongrel Somali pirates.”
Cabrillo laughed and said truthfully, “I think we can handle the Somalis. The last batch that attacked us fared quite poorly.”
“You know what is in this container, yes?”
“I have not been told, but I can guess.”
The boss, who had been convivial up to this point, lowered his voice and hardened his eyes. “It would be in your best interest not to guess. Anything happens to it and everyone you’ve ever known and loved will die.”
Juan waited a beat to reply. “There is no need for that. We have done business in the past and will continue to do so in the future. You pay me well for my risks. I pay my crew well. Everybody is happy. I see no need to add troubles to my life and theirs by upsetting that balance.”
The Iraqi kept his face stony before nodding and saying, “Very good. I think we understand each other.”
“Yes, we do. I will be at dock 43C, Port of Jakarta, in ten days.” Cabrillo added, “As you trust me with this container, I so trust you that we will not be greeted by Indonesian police when we arrive.”
“No worries,” another of the bosses said. “Our al-Qaeda contacts have reached out to their Jemaah Islamiyah brothers in Jakarta. Idiot fanatics, the lot of them, but useful. They will make sure your arrival goes unmolested.”
Juan could see that the guy from Baghdad didn’t like the mentioning of their al-Qaeda connections, so he quickly filled the uncomfortable silence. “Then I believe we are ready to load.”
The customs official came forward to sign off on the seals of a container he’d done everything in his power not to notice.
Juan watched the three Westerners shake each other’s hands. One called just loud enough for him to hear, “Good luck, Gunny.”
Cabrillo winced. He’d hoped the American armed guard would be of a higher rank than gunnery sergeant, because it would be easier to see who was above him on the military food chain. At least now he knew the man had been a Marine. The sergeant had a duffel thrown over a shoulder, and Juan could clearly see the outline of an assault rifle inside it. The Iraqi crime bosses conferred with their men, doubtlessly going over communications protocols for the hundredth time. Juan had to wonder at the trust it took to turn over a billion dollars to a subaltern who most likely resented your status even as he licked your boots.
The Chairman tried to shake each man’s hand as they stepped onto the gangway, but none took up the offer or reciprocated when he gave them his cover name. The three Iraqis and the three Americans marched by in silence, though each man studied their surroundings with predatory eyes. Four tough hombres, Juan thought, and wondered how they would get along over the next ten days.
The boss from Baghdad threw Cabrillo an ironic salute and then waved his hand over his head. High above the pier, the crane operator had been waiting for this signal. The diesel generator that powered the crane’s motors came to life in a bellow of exhaust smoke. In seconds, the cables began to pay out, and the lift cradle, designed to hoist the standard-sized container, descended on the parked semitrailer. It settled with a metallic thunk and then automatically clamped onto The Container’s four corners. Cables were reversed and the box was lifted.