Fifteen minutes later the area looked like a freeway truck crash. Pallets piled high with boxes were strewn haphazardly over the dockside, and dozens of uniformed officers wandered amongst the wreckage seeking signs of life. A throng of officials were inside the container, examining remnants—bits of broken pallet, shreds of cardboard, billows of plastic wrap— picking over each artefact with the solemnity of a philatelist searching for a first-day cover. Nothing: No neatly constructed cubicle in the middle; no false wheel arches; no carefully camouflaged chunk of cargo containing a hideaway—absolutely nothing.
Disappointed, they began jumping down as Bliss, still on the ground, seized the flashlight from the captain and stooped under the truck. Emerging quickly he poked his head around the rear doors and peered at the floor.
“The vent doesn’t come up inside the truck,” he said, to no one in particular. Some of the uniforms stopped moving and he repeated himself. “Look. the vent doesn’t come up through the floor.” Diving back under the truck he checked again, then scrabbled around for a probe; a piece of stiff wire a foot long would be ideal, he thought, and he spotted something fitting on the ground and excitedly lunged for it. A violent overhead explosion caused him to shriek, and his right hand snaked upwards, too late to ward off his attacker—a sharp corner of the chassis. Staggering from under the truck he was caught by familiar hands.
“What’s happened Dave?” enquired Yolanda urgently.
“Hit my bloody head.”
“Let me see,” she said, gently prying his fingers from his scalp and tenderly parting the hairs. “It’s only bleeding a little,” she lied, quickly putting her hand over the wound to stem the flow. “I think we’ll get someone to look at it.”
Reeling noticeably, he allowed Yolanda to guide him toward her car. “Wait,” he cried without opening his eyes. “Tell the captain the air vent goes forward to the front of the container.”
Another pair of hands, bigger and firmer than Yolanda’s, caught hold and eased him into the car as he swooned; fatigue, pain, and blood loss sapping his will.
Bliss would have seen Motsom walking back from the port to one of the bars had he been alert as they shot past. Motsom, knowing the truck had been discovered, scurried to the nearest phone. It was only a matter of time before the driver was induced to talk, warnings had to be given, arrangements made.
Twenty minutes later disillusionment awaited a drowsy Bliss as they returned from the port medical clinic. “Just one stitch should do it,” the doctor had said, muttering about the apparent epidemic of injured cops—Sergeant Jones with his broken wrist, Bliss assumed, though he hadn’t asked, believing Jones had already received more attention than he deserved.
With the truck’s cab detached, a concealed door into a hidden compartment had been exposed, but the forlorn look on Captain Jahnssen’s face warned him not to expect good news.
“Empty,” Jahnssen shouted “He’s not in there.” Then he turned to a group of officers lounging against one of the pallets, lighting cigarettes from a common Zippo lighter, and angrily fired a volley of Dutch at them. The cigarettes were grudgingly stubbed out, one man making a performance by dropping his on the tarmac and defiantly dancing it to pulp with a flamenco. They ambled away, joining the ragged snake of uniforms heading toward the offices, seeking coffee or a cold beer.
“Look here,” said the captain leading Bliss and Yolanda to the secret door they had discovered; he pointed out the professionalism of the construction, the way the riveted seams of aluminium had been used to mask the door’s outline, and inside, three narrow collapsible bunks hung on the back wall.
“That’s a false wall,” Bliss pointed out, quite unnecessarily, giving it a tap and noticing the hollowness as the sound bounced around the empty container behind it. The entire front end of the container was a narrow compartment invisible from inside or out.
“Very clever,” muttered Bliss to himself. “But where’s LeClarc?”
Some plastic storage containers of food, and several plastic jugs of water, had been pulled out by the officers and, as Bliss bent to examine them, dizziness struck again. Yolanda grabbed him, eased him back to a standing position, then opened each container and patiently displayed the contents: Bread, steak & kidney pies, and an assortment of chocolate cakes. Enough for several days, he thought, even for LeClarc.
“Where’s the driver?” asked Bliss of the captain who was still nosing around inside the compartment.
“Arrested,” he said, jumping down. “They’ve taken him in for questioning.”
“Shit!” spat Bliss, “You know what this means?”
Yolanda shook her head for the briefest of seconds before he continued. “LeClarc isn’t here. He didn’t drive his car off the ship …”
“So …” she started to say, but he beat her to it again.
“So, he must have fallen overboard. King was telling the truth after all.”
The captain tried to butt in, but Bliss didn’t give him a chance. “Oh God! That poor sod’s been in the water all day; nobody’s done anything and we were supposed to be protecting him.”
“There could be another truck with a hidden compartment,” the captain suggested implausibly, offering Bliss some defence. “Anyway, it’s too late to start a rescue operation now. It will be dark in a few hours. All we can do is ask shipping to keep a good look-out.”
Alerted to the time, Bliss sneaked a look at his watch. “Four-thirty,” he said, keeping his shabby timepiece under his cuff. “We should get to the airport, Edwards will be here soon.”
“Let me see,” she said, grabbing his wrist.
Oh no! A nightmare—a scratched supermarket special; its vinyl strap shedding threads—damn!
“That’s English time Dave. It’s five-thirty here.”
He let out a squeal. Had she noticed?
“Don’t worry. We’ll be there in time.”
“You said it would take an hour.” Maybe she’d not seen his chronically challenged timepiece.
“Quicker than that,” she said, thrusting him hurriedly toward the BMW, adding, “Your watchstrap’s falling apart.”
Shit!
They sped in silence for awhile. Yolanda, driving fast, concentrated furiously as she snaked along a narrow road, which twined itself along the banks of a canal, green with algae. Several cyclists leapt off their machines in response to the blare of the BMW’s klaxon, and a lone fisherman angrily aimed a wooden clog at them as they passed. Bliss watched her with a dozen questions on his tongue but decided against saying anything. She clearly knew what she was doing and was totally absorbed in controlling the car. Woman and machine in complete unison, yet it was obvious which was in charge. The questions could wait.
“Radio?” he suggested, reaching for the control, then burst into laughter as a familiar melody washed over them.
“Recognize it?” he asked.
Her shrug said, “No,” but the touch of a smile suggested otherwise.
“It’s Wagner’s Flying Dutchman overture,” he laughed, then exhaled in surprise, “phew—that was less than five minutes.” A sign which clearly meant “airport” in Dutch had caught his eye as she stood on the brake, skidded toward a six-foot mesh fence, and slid to a halt inches from a gate. Sliding a magnetic card through a slot, she punched in a security code, and scooted through the gap as the gate opened with a metallic whine.
“We are not there yet, Dave,” she said, stamping her foot back on the accelerator and roaring along