Page 65 of Nobody's Hero
Volkov didn’t answer. He didn’t want to know what was hidden in the NorseBoat. He couldn’t imagine what was so valuable it warranted such an extraordinary operation. Two years in a dry dock would cost the company tens of millions of dollars. A solid-gold NorseBoat wouldn’t cost that much. Instead, he said, ‘Just do your fucking job.’
The NorseBoat was in a padded iron cradle. More air than metal. Sturdy. It served two purposes: to protect the boat in transit, and to lift the boat out of the hold and onto the sea. Volkov and Jenkins fixed chains to each corner of the cradle. The first mate lowered the jib, and Volkov fixed the chains to the crane’s hook.
Jenkins climbed on board and fitted the two outboards. He checked every one of the jerry cans to make sure none of them had leaked. There were twenty in total. Every bit of stowage on the NorseBoat was carrying spare fuel. He opened his provisions box. It was full of jerky and nuts and chocolate and other high-energy food. Nothing that needed cooking. He tapped his water container. It was full. He opened his duffel bag and pulled out the clothing he’d have to wear when he was on the open water. He’d asked an Alaskan trawlerman what he would need and written down everything the cranky old man had told him. You didn’t get to be anoldAlaskan trawlerman without learning how to stay warm and dry. He pulled on a dry suit, face mask and goggles, an alpaca sweater and some padded trousers. Thick gloves. Few more items.
‘Are you ready?’ Volkov asked.
‘I’m ready,’ Jenkins replied.
Volkov made a circling motion above his head, and the cradle, the NorseBoat and the Australian began to rise out of the hold. It reminded Volkov of an elephant in a sling he’d seen on the Discovery Channel. It was being relocated after a run-in with poachers. Volkov climbed back out and watched the first mate manoeuvre the boat. It wasn’t a difficult task. Unloading cargo was what they did. Admittedly, it was the first time they’d done it at sea. Or during the Devil’s Hour. Or with someoneinthe cargo. But they were just details. It was still an unloading job.
The crane’s jib pivoted until the NorseBoat was over the Arctic. The first mate then lowered the cradle and boat onto the sea. Volkov held his breath. In his worst nightmares he’d thought that the cradle might drag the boat down. Something would catch. Or some weird salt-air alchemy would fuse the boat and the cradle together during transit and they’d both sink like a stone. But it went as planned. The boat floated; the cradle didn’t. The Australian waited until the cradle had cleared the bottom of the NorseBoat’s hull, then started one of the outboard motors. He moved the boat until it was clear of the chains. The first mate released the cradle. It silently joined the false bottom on the seabed. In two years, a load of cod and skate and king crabs would call the cradle and the false bottom their home. In ten thousand years, a bunch of archaeologists would ponder its use.Good luck, the first mate thought.
Jenkins chugged a hundred yards from the MVSwan Hunter, then killed the engine. He turned to wave off the captain and the first mate. They hadn’t seen eye-to-eye on this trip, but they’d achieved all their objectives.
But the deck was empty.
It was like they’d never been there.
Jenkins was alone.
Chapter 70
Metropolitan Detention Center, Brooklyn – better known as MDC Brooklyn – was the federal prison that served the Eastern District of New York. It was a boxy, low-rise building in Sunset Park. A cube-shaped warning of what awaited anyone who slipped on the criminal-justice banana skin. Originally a warehouse, it was converted into a federal prison in the mid-nineties. It now warehoused human beings.
Koenig was no prison abolitionist, but even he thought MDC Brooklyn was grim. It was smelly, it was cold, and it was damper than a puddle. It looked like it was held together with black mould.
Draper had wanted to call Smerconish. Let him know they were back on US soil. Koenig hadn’t wanted her to call anyone – ‘Trust no one’ seemed a good maxim right now – but in the end it was moot. They needed his connections. When Draper told him what they needed, he’d asked one question: ‘Is it necessary?’
‘Yes,’ Draper had replied.
‘Consider it done then.’
They were met at MDC Brooklyn by five FBI agents. Special Agent in Charge Isaacs and four lackeys. Isaacs was a doughy man with deep-set eyes. He looked like a cartoon toad. He checked their passports, raised an eyebrow at Koenig’s and Draper’s diplomatic status, paid special attention to the forged passports of Margaret and Carlyle, then took them through security. The guard asked Margaret to remove the hairpin that kept her bun together. She pulled it out and handed it over. It was long and smooth with a ribbed collar.
‘Be careful with that, please,’ she said. ‘It’s Roman.’
‘Nice,’ Koenig said.
She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t always old, dear,’ she said. ‘I used to have suitors.’
Isaacs led them into an interview room. It had been set up with a camera and recording equipment. A steel table was bolted to the floor.
‘We only need a speakerphone,’ Draper said. ‘No camera, no recording equipment.’
Isaacs scowled. ‘We’ll get you a phone,’ he said, ‘but everything else stays. Including me. That’s non-negotiable.’
‘I’m not negotiating.’
‘Miss Draper, I’ve been ordered to facilitate this meeting, but the prisoner is inmycustody. We have a lawful reason to—’
‘You don’t have the security clearance, Agent Isaacs,’ Draper said. ‘No one here does.’
‘Don’t blow smoke up my ass,’ he said. ‘Noneof you have security clearance. Mr Koenig looks like he sleeps in a dumpster, you used to carry a badge but don’t any more, and your friends presented counterfeit passports to a federal agent. That’s a crime. As far as I’m concerned, you’veallcommitted a crime. And your diplomatic passports don’t mean shit stateside. We either arrest you or we cooperate – the choice is yours. Don’t take long. I’m a reasonable man, but my IBS is acting up. It’s making me crabby.’
‘Agent Isaacs, in fifteen minutes the attorney general will call the speakerphone you’re going to get me. You can explain to her then why you’ve gate-crashed a matter of national security. No skin off my ass. Either way, you’ll be leaving this room.’
Which stopped Special Agent in Charge Isaacs in his tracks. The AG was Isaacs’s boss in the same theoretical way the president was his boss. You expected to go your entire career without meeting either. Unless you were getting an award, you didn’t even want them knowing your name.