Tracey McFarland, the deputy director for analysis, entered the conference room with a folder, taking a seat at the table.
“What do you have?” Christine asked.
“I’ve got two more leads,” McFarland replied. She opened the folder and handed copies of the first sheet to everyone. It was a picture of a man Harrison found familiar, but he couldn’t identify who he was.
McFarland said, “We picked up this image of a man entering the country through Dulles Airport yesterday morning. We didn’t get a match until the image went through regression analysis, but we’ve got a ninety-one percent confidence it’s Mixell.”
“He’s back in the country,” the DDO said. “To do what?”
“Hold that thought,” McFarland said as she passed several more sheets around the table. “We’ve broken part of the code on one of Issad Futtaim’s files. It’s the critical document — the one that lists the weapon procurements. We’ve linked one of the purchases to Mixell’s Swiss account, and although we don’t know what he purchased, we know where it was shipped — the Port of Baltimore.”
“Where is it getting shipped from there?” Rolow asked.
“Just the port. There are no additional shipping instructions. My bet is — Mixell is here to pick it up.”
“Has it arrived?”
“We don’t know. We’ve run the shipment manifest number, but it doesn’t come up in the port’s database, nor on any ship unloading in the port. It must be off the books.
“One more thing,” McFarland said. “It must be a fairly large item. Futtaim shipped it in a CONEX box.”
“That should make it easier to find.”
“Not really,” McFarland replied. “The port unloads over two thousand CONEX boxes a day.”
Rolow turned to Harrison and Kendall. “Table the stripper lead for now. Run down Futtaim’s shipment at the port. If it’s there, find it.”
Kendall pulled out her cell phone as they left the conference room. “I’ll call Baltimore PD.” She looked up the number in her contacts, then placed the call.
“Jason, this is Pat Kendall. I need your help.”
She explained the issue with Mixell’s weapon shipment to the Port of Baltimore and asked for an immediate quarantine until she and Harrison arrived.
“Thanks, Jason,” she said before hanging up. She turned to Harrison. “They’ll have someone at all exits within the hour.”
Kendall’s call to Baltimore jogged Harrison’s mind. He was supposed to meet Angie and her mom for dinner in Baltimore tonight, and he had no idea how long he’d be tied up running down this afternoon’s lead.
He called Angie. “I can’t make it tonight. Something’s come up.”
Angie said it was okay, but he sensed the disappointment in her voice. He was going to explain why he canceled, but decided against it; the case details were classified and he wasn’t allowed to share them with anyone without the proper clearance, even his wife. At least not with Kendall walking beside him. However, it wasn’t hard for Angie to figure out the underlying reason.
“You’ve got something on Mixell, don’t you?”
“Yeah. We’re running down a lead. I’ll be in Baltimore, though, and if things wrap up early enough for dinner, I’ll give you a call.”
57
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Lonnie Mixell sat in the passenger seat of an eighteen-wheeler cab as the semi-truck coasted to a stop at the entrance to the Port of Baltimore’s Seagirt Terminal. In the driver’s seat was Allen Terrill, Sr., a trucker nearing retirement. Mixell had needed someone familiar with picking up containers at the port, plus a flatbed trailer to load the shipment onto, and Terrill had met the requirements and been hired.
Terrill was the chatty type, talking incessantly from the time he picked Mixell up at the Alexandria warehouse, and Mixell had learned a great deal about independent trucking and their destination. The Port of Baltimore was one of the largest ports in the world, spread across 1,200 acres divided into seven terminals. Altogether, the port boasted the ability to simultaneously load or offload 173 ships, offered more than five million square feet of warehouse space, and had an outside storage capacity equivalent to over fifty thousand railroad cars. If there was a shoreline version of the warehouse in Raiders of the Lost Ark, the Port of Baltimore was it.
The semi-truck pulled forward in line, eventually reaching the gatehouse, where Mixell handed the shipping document to Terrill, who passed it to the gate guard seated at the window. The man entered the shipment number into his computer, then frowned. He entered it again, then handed the document back to Terrill.
“You’re at the wrong port, buddy. That shipment’s not here, nor scheduled for offload.”
Mixell leaned toward the driver’s window. “You’re Charlie Rooney, right?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I was told this was your shift. We’re here to pick up a shipment in the secure section.”
“Why didn’t you say so at the beginning?”
He left the window, reappearing a moment later with a clipboard.
“Shipping document,” he said, as he glanced uneasily at the driver in the truck behind them.
Terrill handed him the document again, then Rooney slid his finger down a handwritten list on his clipboard, eventually finding a match.
Rooney filled out a piece of paper, then handed it to Terrill along with the shipping document. “Here’s your pass. Pickup at E and Seven.”
As they pulled away from the gate, Terrill explained the terminal’s roads didn’t have names — just numbers and letters — and Rooney had directed them to find the foreman in that sector of the terminal, who’d be at the corner of E and Seven.
Terrill knew the port layout well and quickly navigated to the requisite corner, passing row upon row of containers stacked four high and seven deep. Towering above the identical metal boxes were rail-mounted cranes in constant motion, depositing one container after another onto a seemingly endless procession of flatbed trucks.
Terrill stopped at the corner of E and Seven and handed the pass to the sector foreman, who, after reviewing the paperwork, spoke into a handheld radio, directing one of the cranes to pick up container A851051.
“Crane delta-twelve,” the man said, pointing to a crane that had begun moving toward a nearby stack of containers.
Terrill pulled forward and parked near the crane as it sorted through the stack, digging down until the correct container was located. While they waited, Terrill explained that most truckers hauling containers had no idea what was inside. The containers were locked and sealed, opened only by customs during random inspections. The truckers only ensured the number on the container matched the shipping document and the door seal hadn’t been broken, then delivered the container to wherever the instructions said.
Mixell’s cell phone buzzed, using a unique text-tone vibration set to one person. He pulled out his phone and read the text.
Harrison is on his way to the port.
Mixell replied, How much time do I have?
Don’t know.
Mixell turned to Terrill. “My appointment tonight got moved up. We need to get moving.”
“Got it,” Terrill replied. “This won’t take long.”
The crane swung the specified container onto Terrill’s flatbed trailer, then the trucker verified the CONEX number matched the shipping document and the door seal was intact. He then locked the container onto the flatbed by rotating four metal twist locks — one at each corner of the trailer. A port worker then signed the pass Terrill had been given at the entrance, and they were on the move again, headed back to the gatehouse.