four vertical lock rods were not, as was customary. But one of the lock-rod handles was shut tight with an anti-terrorism supply chain device known as a CTPAT bolt. The certified bolt seal was embedded with an RFID chip and set through the catches. The RFID chip contained all of the data needed to identify the interior contents, content origin, and destination.
In most cases, the cargo shippers themselves installed and removed the CTPAT bolt seal in order to ensure accuracy and security in transit. But containers subject to legal inspection could be resealed only with new bolt seals and identified as such.
Burutin flashed the RFID gun at the bolt seal again, then came back down and showed it to the Russian and chief officer. The RFID readout flashed another error message.
“You see? The contents of this container don’t match my database.” The three of them were standing at the foot of the ladder.
“What do you mean?”
“This container was inspected by my department yesterday and bolt-sealed by us, but this is not the bolt seal that was attached yesterday, according to the reader. That’s illegal.”
The chief officer pointed at the RFID device. “Perhaps your reader is malfunctioning.”
“The error message indicates a problem, not that the reader is malfunctioning.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation. But I assure you, the contents are legally registered and the container was inspected by Oleg—excuse me, Officer Konev—and myself just yesterday.”
“I’m sure you did. But that doesn’t alter the fact that the bolt seal has been changed.”
“It couldn’t have been changed. I’m in charge of all cargo operations. I would know about it.”
The inspector smiled thinly. It was just possible this was a test. He had heard of such things at the academy.
“Yes, you would know about it, wouldn’t you? Still, I must insist we open the container and reinspect.”
“There is no time for that. We’d have to wait for a forklift—if we can even find one; they’re all busy right now—take the stack apart, and pull out crates of machine parts that would each have to be inspected. It would take hours, and we’re due to begin loading in thirty minutes.”
“I’m sorry, but the law is quite clear. That, or you leave the container behind.”
“That wouldn’t be possible, either.” Voroshilov chuckled. “I see you have been well trained. And I respect that. I’m a licensed professional myself, and I take my cargo security seriously. Here, let me show you my credentials.”
The Russian reached into his coat and pulled out a thick leather billfold and handed it to the inspector. Burutin opened it. On one side of the billfold was Voroshilov’s maritime license, with photo and rank and ratings. On the other side was a thick wad of large-denomination rubles. About a month’s worth of Burutin’s wages.
“Everything look in order?” Voroshilov smiled broadly.
The inspector glanced back at the wallet. He was newly married, living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment with his mother-in-law, who slept on the couch. The cash was very tempting, and no doubt more would follow if he cooperated on this occasion. Konev must have worked a sweetheart deal with this man a long time ago. Mafia, maybe? It didn’t matter. It’s not the way his father had raised him.
The inspector shook his head as he handed the billfold back to the barrel-chested mariner. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I must do my duty.”
“I understand completely,” Voroshilov said. “And I’m truly sorry.”
Burutin’s eyes flashed blinding white as the wrench slammed into the back of his skull. The white-hot agony crashed his central nervous system, dropping him to the cold, wet asphalt.
* * *
—
The gentle rocking woke him. His eyes fluttered open.
Burutin’s throbbing brain ached unbearably, each beat of his heart another nail driven into the deepest recesses of his skull. He was just one step removed from unconsciousness. The rocking motion stirred him like his wife’s gentle hand on a cold, frosty morning, easing him out of bed.
As his mind opened further, his nose filled with the stench of chemicals. The rest of his body protested, too—aches and pains everywhere. His wrists especially. Tied, perhaps? He glanced down at them, but it was too dark to see.
A slight twist of his battered head revealed a series of jagged patches of dim light. Holes. Stabbed into the wall in front of him. Another twist of his aching neck showed holes above as well.
Now he felt the contours of his body—he was twisted up and nearly fetal, his shoulder pressing hard against a smooth, curved surface. His legs?