The rectangular, brick-shaped parcels were covered in packaging paper wrapped in cellophane, filling the crate to three-quarters capacity in a staggered array. He photographed the crate interior with one snapshot, then pocketed his phone and lifted a brick—it weighed around two pounds, but Worthy didn’t have to be an intelligence expert to know that he was holding a kilo.
Withdrawing his pocketknife, Worthy turned toward the hallway light, flipping the blade open and using the tip to make a miniscule puncture through the cellophane and packing paper. The gash revealed a powder packed within, almost white in color, but closer examination revealed it to have a trace of beige.
This was heroin, he knew, and a hell of a lot at that.
Worthy found a zip lock bag in his pocket and used it to collect a small sample of the powder. Sealing the bag, he moved to the crate and pulled three kilos aside, stuffing the brick he’d cut into the space below before replacing the others atop it and carefully shifting the crate lid back to its original position.
Then he heard a terrifying sound—a chair scraping at the end of the hall, followed by a man’s footsteps. Worthy felt a hot pang of adrenaline, considering whether he’d made some noise that alerted the office occupant of their presence; but they’d remained quiet, definitely below the audible thresholds of the man’s classical music.
It took him a split second to recall the bathroom in the corner, and Worthy realized two things at the same time: one, that the Russian was coming to use the facilities, and two, there was no place to hide.
Cancer sidestepped next to the door, tucking his back to the wall in preparation to attack the incoming Russian. They had no choice but to fight the man—no choice, Worthy thought, except one.
He ducked away from the doorway, then keyed his radio in bursts without speaking: three short presses, three long, then three short. Then Worthy repeated the sequence continuously, transmitting gaps of static in the universal Morse code signal for SOS.
The footsteps continued their approach as Worthy feverishly punched in his signal, hoping against all odds that it would achieve its intended effect in time to save them from compromise and derail their entire mission in Nigeria.
The Russian was now within feet of the doorway, and Worthy almost cringed at the prospect of what was about to occur; then, just as the man was about to clear the doorway, a shrill sound pierced the building.
It was the phone ringing loudly from the office, its chime echoing throughout the building as the footsteps stopped and abruptly shifted course.
Worthy breathed a sigh of relief, reminding himself not to relax just yet. Suddenly Ian’s idea of a contingency plan—carrying a burner phone with the Gradsek office number programmed into speed dial, having been acquired from the ISA trace of a Nigerian politician’s call history—didn’t seem as inane as it had when the intelligence operative proposed the idea earlier that day.
The classical music stopped, and the phone’s ring ended as the distant sound of a man’s voice filled the void.
“Privet?”
No words were spoken between the two team members, no squeeze of the shoulder needed to communicate that they were ready to move in unison.
Instead Cancer rushed out of the room, quietly opening the door and allowing Worthy to dash outside. As he ran, he heard the Russian man repeating, “Privet?”
Then Cancer eased the door shut, turning to follow Worthy as both men moved at a sprint, retracing their steps to Reilly’s concealed lookout position.
I held my breath as Ian pressed the burner phone to his ear—his end of the line was muted from transmitting sound, but the incoming voice was audible in the silent media van as the man politely repeated a single word for the third time.
“Privet?”
Then Reilly’s voice came over the speaker box, transmitting on our team frequency, “Racegun and Cancer are out—we’re good.”
Ian ended the call, tossing the burner phone beside his computer as both of us looked to one another with expressions of shock mingled with an emotion bordering on bliss. Neither of us had expected to actually utilize the SOS contingency, and the fact that we weren’t getting notification of a total compromise was almost unbelievable.
Lifting my hand mic, I transmitted back, “Copy, call ended. Return to Crossing Point Alpha, collect all cameras and routers on the way. When able”—I emphasized the words, knowing full well that the luxury of the team relaying any additional information would occur only when they were far from the office—“send any indications of compromise and additional intel, over.”
To my surprise, Cancer replied almost at once, “I can’t risk re-picking the locks to secure the entry door. Aside from that, we’re clean.”
I set down my hand mic, almost shuddering with relief as I tilted my head back to look at the ceiling before turning my gaze to Ian. Sure, the Gradsek man in the office might notice the locks were open, but that was a far cry from sounding the alarm of discovering two Americans inside his building.
Ian had apparently recovered his wits far sooner than I had—he was back to analyzing his phone, zooming in and panning across the image of a shipping schedule that Worthy had texted.
“David,” he said, “I think we’ve got something significant here.”
I shook my head. “No time for a preamble—what is it?”
“The dry erase board indicates exchanges of cargo, both incoming and outgoing, marked by date. All but line eight have transpired already.”
“What cargo?”
“That’s the thing,” he said in frustration, “they’re coded with alphanumeric identifiers, but the locations are identified. On the line in question, I see 2500 units of T74, which are to be shipped tomorrow on an outgoing container. Whatever that cargo is, it’s being traded for 1800 units of L13 and 900 units of Y210 that arrived at port two days ago and were diverted from the rest of the load for storage in Building 8.”
I identified the building on our reference graphic—it was massive, and one of several lining the north edge beside the waterfront. All of them had CCTV cameras oriented both outward to the water as well as inward to the Gradsek compound.
“Warehouse?” I asked.
“Definitely,” he said, “and that’s cause for suspicion—if that offloaded cargo was legitimate, it would be sitting in the container yard right now along with everything else from the ship. The fact that it’s not indicates they’re breaking down the load inside the building to avoid overhead surveillance, preparing the cargo for some kind of follow-on distribution.”
“You have a point of origin for the incoming ship?”
“Not yet. Even the ship reference is coded, but with dates of arrival and departure, the Agency will be able to run it against the port records.”
“Then where is the outgoing cargo located? The T74 they’re trading.”
Ian blinked quickly as he replied, still staring in disbelief at his phone screen. “That’s the thing. It’s supposed to be in Building 13, which our entry team just departed.”