Despite tight mooring lines, the ship rocked in the wind. It was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. With barely a warning, the bulldozer began to swing, to pendulum back and forth. Hammel and a host of other seamen tried to steady her with hand lines, but the Venieri pitched out of control, swung and smashed against the starboard boom, leaving a great scar on the metal plating covering the gears and winch.
Hammel’s heart gave up a beat. He heaved against the hand line, pulled with all his might. The dozer shimmied back and forth a few more times, then finally settled. The winches croaked and coughed as they hoisted her higher, higher and higher and up and over the rail, and finally down onto the dock below.
As soon as the hand lines and hoisting cables were disengaged, a stevedore jumped up into the cab and started up the Venieri. Hammel watched as a plume of black smoke belched out of the exhaust pipe, and the yellow bulldozer roared away.
Captain Abdullah Shamir was standing just outside the bridge, on the starboard side, watching the activity below. Hammel lifted his right hand for an instant, as if to wipe his brow. The Captain nodded almost imperceptibly, and the Algerian turned and started toward the gangway.
Hammel waited outside the warehouse until nightfall, when the sun had disappeared behind the central volcanic slopes, and the harbor was cast into shadow. The city of Arrecife glowed to the west. Hammel could see the stone walls of the Castillo de Gabriel illuminated by spotlights only a mile or so away. A cool breeze blew in from the north and — buffeting the ancient fortress — whistled down the streets of Arrecife, capital city of Lanzarote, the easternmost isle of the Canary chain.
Hammel looked at his watch. It was almost 7:00 PM. He slipped under the wire fence, dashed across the outer perimeter, and threw himself to the ground beside the warehouse. Then, he crawled forward on his hands and knees toward the main doors. A night guard dozed outside the entrance. He was sitting in a small shack made of local palm planks with a corrugated iron roof. Hammel smiled. One of the warehouse doors was slightly open. He dashed behind the shack, slipped to the ground, and slithered through the shadows to the entrance. A moment later, he was inside.
It was a large warehouse, but Hammel spotted the Venieri bulldozer almost immediately. It was parked beside a tower of pallets near the entrance. He scanned the warehouse. The cargo was lined up in four rows, in some cases stacked almost to the ceiling on reinforced metal shelving. He checked the rows one by one. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.
About halfway down the second aisle, he noticed a large wooden crate scheduled to be loaded aboard the Rêve de Chantal in the morning. Hammel studied the label with care. When he was satisfied, he picked up a nearby crowbar and opened the lid as quietly as he could. Moments later, he spotted a wine-colored blanket and, underneath, the cartoon faces of John, Paul, George and Ringo, three plastic periscopes and a yellow submarine. This was it. He continued to expose the Sound Leisure Beatles jukebox. When he had revealed the entire cabinet, he disassembled one of the polycarbonate bubble tube pilasters on the outer edge. It was no longer filled with water and it slipped off easily, revealing a large hollow in the casing below the compact disc machine. Hammel knelt down and felt inside. Plenty of room.
He made his way back across the warehouse. There was a dramatic VF logo on one side of the yellow bulldozer; it had been manufactured by VF Venieri, Costruzione Macchine Industriali of Lugo, Italy. The bulldozer featured an articulated backhoe loader, a quick coupler, 4-in-1 shovel, a telescopic dipper stick… and a thermonuclear device.
Hammel removed a screwdriver from his pocket. He slipped it underneath a panel immediately below the right door. It took only a few seconds and — with a loud pop — the panel separated from the chassis, revealing a satchel of plastic explosives, gunpowder bladders, and an aluminum attaché case within.
Hammel looked about the warehouse. He was still alone. He snatched the satchel and attaché case, replaced the panel, and hurried back across the warehouse toward the second aisle. When he had reached the jukebox, he slipped the case into the opening. Then he mounted the plastic explosives and bladders along the inside seams, following a drawing he referred to in his hand. When he was done, he replaced the pilaster. Everything fit perfectly behind the bubble tube, invisible and safe, secure and…
The noise of heavy footsteps broke his reverie. Hammel swung in behind the crate. It was still open, but at least it afforded him some measure of protection; no passersby could see him. He huddled down. The footsteps drew closer. He knelt behind the jukebox. He poked behind the waistband of his pants and felt for the plastic toggles. There they were. He tugged gently and the wire began to slide out of his waistband. It snaked around his stomach, slipped out and dangled in his hand. He unfastened the extra plastic toggle and refastened it to the naked wire tip. The stranger drew near. Hammel ran his fingers around the plastic toggles and pulled the wire tight.
Nearer, nearer, and the figure shuffled into view: A large black man pushing a dolly — an African, no doubt — with thick black matted hair, a head round as a coconut, a fleshy mouth, immense flat nose and tiny eyes. He took in first the corridor, the open crate, and then the Beatles jukebox.
Ali Hammel realized he was holding his breath. He looked down at the wire in his hands, the way it shimmered in the light, so sharp, so tight. The African continued to stare at the open crate. He looked about the corridor. He seemed fitful and nervous, as if he could somehow sense Hammel behind the jukebox. Then the African passed by. He kept on walking until he stopped, all of a sudden, by another crate. He propped the dolly up against a shelf and reached down for what appeared to be a case of wine. And then another, and another. He stacked three cases onto the dolly, then started back along the corridor. Once again, he passed the open crate. But this time the African didn’t stop. He simply kept on walking, turned the corner and disappeared, his footsteps gradually receding.
Hammel waited a few more minutes before he unclasped the plastic handle, clipped it to the other side of the wire, and re-threaded the garrote around his waistband. Then he began to reassemble everything: the wine-colored blanket; the frame; the planking around the crate. He made sure the label was affixed just as before. When he was done, he returned to the front of the warehouse. The guard was wide-awake now, no doubt raised by the African. Hammel got onto his hands and knees. He crawled around the little wooden hut, around the warehouse, and made a dash across the macadam perimeter, back through the outer fence.
Captain Abdullah Shamir was in his cabin when Hammel returned from the warehouse. He was relaxing, preparing to retire for the night. Hammel insisted on coming in and, after a moment’s hesitation, the Captain reluctantly agreed.
“I need you to transfer me to the Rêve de Chantal,” Hammel informed him. “She came in from Marseilles this morning.”
Captain Abdullah walked over to his refrigerator and removed a Fanta. He popped the cap off using the handle of the fridge, and the orange soda fizzed and fizzled over the lip of the glass bottle. The cap rolled somewhere out of sight.
A small triumphant feeling overcame him. The Captain had been “asked” to add the mysterious Algerian to his active seamen’s roster, “asked” to ship the Venieri bulldozer, and “asked” to let the Algerian go ashore in Arrecife. As a faithful Muslim, he had taken the request most seriously. Captain Abdullah knew the fate of those who refused the Algerian Islamic fundamentalists. But, now, he was more than eager to get rid of Ali Hammel.