a wooden crate. The crate was four feet tall, eight feet long, and wrapped in thick steel cables, drawn around to a thick steel padlock on top.
“ Lower! ” yelled Al-Medi to the crane operator. “One foot. Hurry! ”
Moored alongside the pier was a fishing boat, a 211-foot vessel built for use in deep ocean all over the world. The ship had been in dry dock for several years before its current owner purchased it, in cash, just a week ago.
Cyrillic letters spread across the bow. Roughly translated, they meant Lonely Fisherman.
The ship was black, old, and ugly, with long streaks of rust and slash marks along the hull, earned over decades. A half dozen men stood on the deck. They were young, all in their early twenties. There was not a smile to be seen among them. Their eyes scanned the dirt road behind the pier, the small area of visible waterfront, and the foggy sky, looking for any unexpected visitors.
The hook and ball were lowered down next to Al-Medi. He grabbed the hook and moved it to the top of the crate. He latched it to a steel ring at the center of the large container.
Slowly, the crate was lifted into the air. The crane boom creaked as the object stressed rusted bolts and pulleys. The crane operator swung the crate gingerly through the air toward the deck of the ship. Once the boom was above the center of the deck, he lowered the crate until it came to rest. One of the men unhooked it.
A distant noise interrupted the low din of the crane. Every man turned. A brown cloud of dust and dirt accompanied the sound of a car engine. It was a dull blue Porsche 911 4S. Two of the men on the deck of the ship lifted submachine guns reflexively into the air, training them at the approaching vehicle.
“ Put the guns down! ” yelled Al-Medi angrily.
The Porsche stopped at the end of the pier. The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. He was joined by an older man, in his seventies, with gray hair and glasses, who carried a steel briefcase.
Al-Medi jumped down from the flatbed to greet the visitors. As he walked, he looked at the six men aboard the ship.
“Get ready to cast off!” Al-Medi barked. “Tarp the crate. Now! Faqir, come with me.”
One of the men jumped off the boat and walked with Al-Medi toward the visitors.
“Cloud,” Al-Medi said as he stepped toward the parking area to greet him.
Cloud was wearing black jeans and a leather jacket. He had on white-framed sunglasses. His Afro of blond curls stuck up in an unruly pattern. In his right hand was a small duffel bag.
Al-Medi put his hand out as Cloud approached, but Cloud made no effort to return the gesture.
“Is it ready?” asked Cloud, with urgency in his voice.
“Yes,” said Al-Medi. “They will push off within the hour. This is the captain, Faqir.”
Cloud scanned the other man.
“How old are you?” asked Cloud.
“Twenty-seven,” said Faqir.
“And you are capable?”
“I have made six transatlantic crossings in my life,” said Faqir. “Yes, I believe I am ready, sir.”
“Have you ever been at the helm when making those crossings?”
Cloud stared into the Arab’s eyes. He already knew the answer to his question, but he wanted to hear what Faqir would say.
“No, sir, I have not.”
Cloud nodded impassively. But Faqir’s answer pleased him. He was not a liar.
Cloud handed him the duffel bag.
“This is a VHF radio,” said Cloud. “It was bought in Nova Scotia and is registered to a Canadian citizen. Its AIS beacon will indicate that it is a Halifax cod dragger. When you get to Georges Bank, initiate contact with whatever vessel you can find. Do not send a distress signal. You simply are having engine problems. Inform whoever you can raise that you’re in need of engine filters. When they come close, do what you need to do to take over the boat. No witnesses. Move the bomb, then sink the dragger.”
“I understand,” said Faqir.
“Dr. Poldark has potassium iodide pills for the crew. You’ll want to
“ Lower! ” yelled Al-Medi to the crane operator. “One foot. Hurry! ”
Moored alongside the pier was a fishing boat, a 211-foot vessel built for use in deep ocean all over the world. The ship had been in dry dock for several years before its current owner purchased it, in cash, just a week ago.
Cyrillic letters spread across the bow. Roughly translated, they meant Lonely Fisherman.
The ship was black, old, and ugly, with long streaks of rust and slash marks along the hull, earned over decades. A half dozen men stood on the deck. They were young, all in their early twenties. There was not a smile to be seen among them. Their eyes scanned the dirt road behind the pier, the small area of visible waterfront, and the foggy sky, looking for any unexpected visitors.
The hook and ball were lowered down next to Al-Medi. He grabbed the hook and moved it to the top of the crate. He latched it to a steel ring at the center of the large container.
Slowly, the crate was lifted into the air. The crane boom creaked as the object stressed rusted bolts and pulleys. The crane operator swung the crate gingerly through the air toward the deck of the ship. Once the boom was above the center of the deck, he lowered the crate until it came to rest. One of the men unhooked it.
A distant noise interrupted the low din of the crane. Every man turned. A brown cloud of dust and dirt accompanied the sound of a car engine. It was a dull blue Porsche 911 4S. Two of the men on the deck of the ship lifted submachine guns reflexively into the air, training them at the approaching vehicle.
“ Put the guns down! ” yelled Al-Medi angrily.
The Porsche stopped at the end of the pier. The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. He was joined by an older man, in his seventies, with gray hair and glasses, who carried a steel briefcase.
Al-Medi jumped down from the flatbed to greet the visitors. As he walked, he looked at the six men aboard the ship.
“Get ready to cast off!” Al-Medi barked. “Tarp the crate. Now! Faqir, come with me.”
One of the men jumped off the boat and walked with Al-Medi toward the visitors.
“Cloud,” Al-Medi said as he stepped toward the parking area to greet him.
Cloud was wearing black jeans and a leather jacket. He had on white-framed sunglasses. His Afro of blond curls stuck up in an unruly pattern. In his right hand was a small duffel bag.
Al-Medi put his hand out as Cloud approached, but Cloud made no effort to return the gesture.
“Is it ready?” asked Cloud, with urgency in his voice.
“Yes,” said Al-Medi. “They will push off within the hour. This is the captain, Faqir.”
Cloud scanned the other man.
“How old are you?” asked Cloud.
“Twenty-seven,” said Faqir.
“And you are capable?”
“I have made six transatlantic crossings in my life,” said Faqir. “Yes, I believe I am ready, sir.”
“Have you ever been at the helm when making those crossings?”
Cloud stared into the Arab’s eyes. He already knew the answer to his question, but he wanted to hear what Faqir would say.
“No, sir, I have not.”
Cloud nodded impassively. But Faqir’s answer pleased him. He was not a liar.
Cloud handed him the duffel bag.
“This is a VHF radio,” said Cloud. “It was bought in Nova Scotia and is registered to a Canadian citizen. Its AIS beacon will indicate that it is a Halifax cod dragger. When you get to Georges Bank, initiate contact with whatever vessel you can find. Do not send a distress signal. You simply are having engine problems. Inform whoever you can raise that you’re in need of engine filters. When they come close, do what you need to do to take over the boat. No witnesses. Move the bomb, then sink the dragger.”
“I understand,” said Faqir.
“Dr. Poldark has potassium iodide pills for the crew. You’ll want to
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