Snake Eye (8 page)

That’ll be fine, sir,” the retired petty officer said, and turned to leave.

Dexter was on his feet by then and followed Pasco out to meet his prospective tenants. The
man was tall, well put together, and wore casual clothes—expensive stuff that the ex-naval officer would never have been willing to try on much less buy. The woman looked younger, wore very little for such a cold winter day, and could only be described as beautiful. A quality that made her perfect for the viewing room. “Hello!” Dexter said as he extended his hand. “My name is Jack Dexter. I own the Bayview.”

“Chow,” the other man responded economically, giving the businessman’s hand a single rather unenthusiastic pump. “
Joe Chow
.”

The name was delivered with a very slight emphasis—as if Dexter should be familiar with it. The ex-naval officer wasn’t but that didn’t stop him from pretending to be. “Yes! Of course! You’re here to look at unit 6A.”

Since Chow hadn’t seen fit to introduce his beautiful companion Dexter assumed they weren’t married. Even though she was dressed like a street whore the woman was surprisingly asexual. The businessman thought it best to be courteous and extended his hand. “I’m Jack Dexter, and you are?”

“She doesn’t speak English,” Chow stated brusquely.

“Yes, well, please take a seat,” Dexter responded awkwardly. “I have some literature for you to take a look at…plus a lease if you’re interested.”

Both guests had taken their seats by the time Dexter made it around to the other side of the desk. The woman lit a cigarette, only to have it appropriated by Chow, forcing her to light another. Dexter didn’t like smokers, but knew $2,500 per month was steep, and that people with that sort of money didn’t want to hear the word “no.” He opened a drawer, removed the candy dish that he’d been meaning to fill, and pushed it across the desk.

The girl’s skirt was so short that it barely hit mid-thigh when she was standing and went even higher when she sat. The ex-officer caught a glimpse of red panties as she crossed her legs and looked up to discover that Chow was grinning. “She looks good, doesn’t she?” the snakehead observed.

It was a strange thing to say, and since the girl’s expression remained the same, Dexter assumed that she hadn’t understood. “Yes,” the ex-naval officer admitted uncomfortably, “she does. Here’s a copy of the floor plan, a copy of our standard lease, and a list of the building’s amenities. We have underground parking by the way—that’s a big plus downtown.”

Chow exhaled a column of smoke but left the paperwork untouched. “No offense—but why stare at a floor plan if we can see the apartment?”

“Why indeed,” Dexter said agreeably. “Let’s go up and take a look.”

The businessman followed his prospective tenants out into the lobby and pushed the elevator button. There was a chime as the polished metal doors parted. “It requires a key card to enter the building after 6:00 p.m.,” Dexter explained. “And you need the same device to operate the elevator. We have cameras on every floor—and they are monitored around the clock.”

“That’s good,” Chow allowed, as he dropped his cigarette onto the elevator’s highly polished floor and stepped on it. “We had a burglary at my present apartment. They broke the door down…. We’re looking for something more secure.”

“You won’t have that sort of problem here,” Dexter assured him. “Our doors are made of metal—and they’re fireproof to boot.”

Chow uttered what might have been a grunt of approval as the elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors parted to reveal a marble-topped table that bore a handsome flower arrangement. The snakehead exited first, followed by Ling, and then Dexter. While it was true that the young woman’s knowledge of English was less than perfect, she had been honing her
linguistic skills by watching daytime television, and was momentarily hopeful. Ling hated the Chinatown apartment and hoped Chow would move into something better.

Two doors were visible—one at each end of the short hall. “That’s 6A,” Dexter said, pointing to the right. “It has a wonderful view of the bay.”

“Who lives in the other apartment?” Chow wanted to know.

“
I
do,” the businessman replied, “which means that the person who takes 6A will have a good neighbor.”

It was meant to be a joke but Chow didn’t laugh as he allowed himself to be ushered into the apartment where Pasco and a plumber were hard at work in the kitchen. It featured top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, dark granite counters, and maple cabinets. The first Instahot water heater had broken down within a matter of days so a second unit was being installed. “We’re still adding a few finishing touches,” Dexter explained, “but the apartment will be available by Friday.”

Chow ignored the workmen, drifted out into the sunken living room, and found himself looking at an unobstructed view of Elliott Bay. Though not as high as his father’s condominium, the view was every bit as good, and that pleased him. The snakehead knew that a Feng Shui mastet would have commented on the fact that
chi
, or positive energy, would flow well through the space, but was determined to ignore his father’s old-world superstition. “I’ll take it,” Chow proclaimed. “How much?”

Dexter, who was used to waiting through a good deal of hemming and hawing while people made up their minds, was pleasantly surprised. “That’s wonderful! I’ll need the first and last months’ rent plus a one-thousand-dollar damage deposit. Would you like to see the rest of the unit?”

“Yeah, sure,” Chow replied, but the snakehead’s mind was already made up as he stuck his head into a couple of smaller rooms prior to entering the master suite. Not only was it huge, it boasted a nice view of downtown, and an oversized mirror on the wall opposite the spot where a bed would go. Chow imagined what it would be like to screw Ling from behind while he watched her face in the mirror. He felt his penis start to harden and knew he had made the right choice.

Ling knew it was important to maintain her makeup and took the opportunity to peer into the mirror. She recognized the face as being hers—but the eyes belonged to someone else.

The rain was so fine that it accumulated on the windshield as a thousand tiny dots, all of which were swept away by a single swipe of Rossi’s wipers as the agent made a hard right-hand turn into the SEACON terminal. It consisted of a vast concrete wasteland presided over by orange cranes so tall that they dwarfed the white, green, and blue cargo containers stacked around their skeletal legs. The lunch that the FBI agent had prepared for her daughter slid across the passenger seat, bounced off the door, and tumbled to the floor. Missy had intentionally or unintentionally forgotten to grab the brown paper sack as she bailed out of the car in front of her school, and Rossi hadn’t noticed in time, a mistake that the hyper-efficient Vanessa would never be guilty of.

Rossi was still fussing over her own inadequacies as the tractor trailer rig in front of her slowed and then stopped next to a small guard station. Security was a big concern in the Port of Seattle, and had been ever since 9/11.

Rossi pulled forward as the truck cleared the check point. She offered the uniformed security guard her credentials and was pleased to see that the man took the time required to compare the
photo with her face. If he was impressed by the badge, there was no outward indication of it. He nodded politely. “Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?”

Rossi consulted the fax that the SNAKE EYE team leader had sent her. “I’m meeting some people at SEACON B-4. Which way do I go?

The guard gave some concise directions, and the agent followed them through a maze of stacked cargo containers and entered an open area. Yellow crime tape had been used to mark off one of the big forty-foot-long shipping containers. Patches of red rust had corrupted the gray paint and were nibbling at the four-foot tall letters that spelled “SEACON.” A thick black cable led from a diesel generator to the isolated shipping container. It seemed like an odd location for a meeting, but given the presence of some sedans with tax-exempt plates, Rossi figured she was in the right place. That impression was reinforced when she saw the small group of people who stood talking under a blue awning.

Conscious of the fact that she was running ten minutes late, the agent parked in the first available slot, got out, and hurried across the worn concrete to the spot where the crime tape barred her way. She lifted the plastic ribbon high enough to slip underneath and was halfway across the open area beyond when a man came out to meet her. He wore a big hat, with a western cut gray suit and fancy boots. His face was brown, as if he had spent a lot of time out in the sun, and the sunglasses he normally wore had left white ovals around pale blue eyes. The man grinned and stuck out his hand. It was large, warm, and firm. “I’m Hawkins. You must be Rossi.”

Based on what she’d been able to learn from the unofficial network that binds federal law enforcement officers together, the FBI agent knew that Assistant Special Agent in Charge Dale Hawkins was not only a customs agent, but a legendary customs agent, who had spent most of the last twenty years working to slow if not halt the flow of illegal aliens into the southern United States. There was something about his no-bullshit style that Rossi liked. She smiled in return. “Yes, I’m Christina Rossi. Sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.”

The ASAC released her hand. “No problem. I figured the bureau would send me a rookie, a pencil pusher, or some old geezer who was coasting to retirement. You can’t imagine how happy I was when they assigned a
real
agent to the team. Someone who can think, act,
and
shoot if it comes to that.”

Rossi was used to receiving more criticism than praise and couldn’t help but feel complimented, especially since her built-in bullshit detector hadn’t gone off. “Thank you, Agent Hawkins. I’m glad to be here.”

“Call me Hawk, or hey asshole,” the customs agent said breezily. “Everyone else does. Come on. I want you to meet the rest of the team.”

The rest of the team consisted of a crisp-looking Coast Guard Lieutenant named Tom Olman, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents Olivia Inez, Chuck Hagger, and Ellen Moller, plus a Seattle Police Detective named George Tolley. Some were already working on the illegal immigrant problem on behalf of their various agencies. All were pleasant, but reserved, as if waiting to see how the FBI agent would square with the media hype.

“All right,” Hawkins said once the introductions had been made, “let’s get to work. If you would be so kind as to step inside the cargo container we’ll start the meeting.”

Tolley was an African-American with a receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and a ready smile. He motioned for Rossi to enter the metal box ahead of him. “I believe that FBI agents should always enter dark cargo containers
before
members of the Seattle Police Department.”

Rossi made a face at the policeman and entered the box. The agent noticed that a table and chairs had been set up in the middle of the floor. She wondered why the enclosure smelled so
bad, but was then startled when the door slammed closed. Total darkness was accompanied by the sound of Hawk’s voice. “Welcome to SEACON container 7306, ladies and gentlemen. Please remain right where you are. If you have had the pleasure of visiting Hong Kong, you saw hundreds, maybe thousands of containers like this one as the train carried you from the airport to Central. Mountains of boxes frequently protected by little more than a cyclone fence. About eight million of these suckers enter the U.S. each year—and only six percent of them are inspected.

“Now, I want you to imagine that you were one of the eighteen Chinese nationals who were loaded into this particular container. You were strangers to each other at first, but you had plenty of things in common. All of you were from the Chinese province of Fujian, which is located north of Hong Kong, and only one hundred miles from Taiwan. And you weren’t the first to make such a journey. ICE estimates that more than two hundred thousand of your countrymen settled in the New York area alone during the last twenty years.”

It had already become close in the container,
very
close, and the smell made it worse. Light splashed the ceiling as Hawkins produced a small flashlight and positioned the device directly below his chin. The glow made him look gruesome, and Rossi was reminded of a camping trip when she had used the same technique to tell Missy a ghost story. The then-third-grader had been scared all right,
too
scared to sleep, and cranky the next morning.

“You sat in container seven three oh six for five days waiting for it to be loaded,” Hawkins continued. “Followed by two weeks at sea. You had a few flashlights, like this one, but the batteries ran out after a few days which left you to live in total darkness. What little fresh air there was came in through holes and the gaps around the doors. Some of you had the runs, others were seasick, and it didn’t take long to fill the five-gallon buckets that served as toilets. A corner was designated as the John, but ships roll, so the mixture of feces, urine, and vomit had a tendency to slosh back and forth.”

“And it was cold,
very
cold, with no way to generate heat. Rations consisted of rice, crackers, and water. The food ran out with a week left to go. So it was no surprise when people started to die. Three in all, leaving just fifteen of you huddled together, sealed in what might become your tomb. Finally, having been unloaded here in Seattle, the Americans found you. Or what was left of you, before they carted you off to jail.”

Hawkins let the words hang there, giving each member of the team the time necessary to assimilate them before bringing a small radio up to his lips. “Okay, Larry. The horror show is over. Open the doors.”

There was a
clang
as a vertical locking bar was released, followed by the squeal of unoiled hinges as a heretofore unseen agent pulled the double doors open. Daylight entered the container along with a welcome surge of fresh air. Rossi drew it deep into her lungs. Hawkins grinned knowingly. “Excuse the drama, folks. But my presentation lasted about two minutes. Imagine nineteen or twenty days of that.”