The Cobra

The mention of his country's enemies was more than enough for the master sergeant. He shouted, "Yes, sir," and strode back to the beach.

Dexter strolled slowly up the alley between the palms. He had seen a few bales since the previous March but never anything like this. Behind him the Marines had appeared, each toting a large can, and began dousing each pile of bales. Dexter had never seen cocaine burn, but he was told it was quite flammable if given a starter blaze with accelerant.

He had for many years carried a small Swiss Army-type penknife on his key chain, and as he was traveling on an official government passport it had not been confiscated at Dulles International. Out of curiosity, he opened the short blade and jabbed it into the nearest bale. Might as well, he thought. He had never tasted it before and probably never would again.

The short blade went through the buckram wrapping, through the tough polyethylene and into the powder. It came out with a knob of white dust on the end. He had his back to the Marines down the alley. They could not see what the "documents" contained.

He sucked the white blob off the point of his knife. Ran it around his mouth until the powder, dissolving in saliva, reached the taste buds. He was surprised. He knew the taste after all.

He approached another bale and did the same. But a bigger cut and a bigger sample. And another, and another. As a young man out of the Army, back from Vietnam, studying law at Fordham, New York, he had paid for his tuition with a series of menial jobs. One was in a pastry shop. He knew baking soda very well.

He made ten other incisions in different bales before they were doused and the powerful stench of gasoline took over. Then he walked thoughtfully back to the beach. He drew up an empty canister, sat on it and stared out to sea. Thirty minutes later, the master sergeant was at his side, towering over him.

"Job done, sir."

"Torch it," said Dexter.

He heard the barked orders of "Stand clear " and the dull whump as the vaporizing fuel took flame and smoke rose from the palm grove. January is the time of winds in the Bahamas, and a stiff breeze turned the first flames into a blowtorch.

He turned to see the palms and their hidden contents consumed by flames. On the dock the floatplane pilot was on his feet, watching openmouthed. The dozen Marines were also staring at their handiwork.

"Tell me, Master Sergeant…"

"Sir?"

"How did the bales of documents reach you here?"

"By boat, sir."

"All in one cargo, one at a time?"

"No, sir. At least a dozen visits. Over the weeks we've been here."

"Same vessel each time?"

"Yes, sir. Same one."

Of course. There had to be another vessel. The fleet auxiliaries that had replenished the SEALs and the British SBS at sea had removed trash and prisoners. They had delivered food and fuel. But the confiscated cargoes did not go back to Gibraltar or Virginia. The Cobra needed the labels, batch numbers and identification codes to fool the cartel. So these trophies he had kept. Apparently here.

"What kind of ship?"

"A small one, sir. Tramp steamer."

"Nationality?"

"Don't know, sir. She had a flag at the stern. Like two commas. One red, one blue. And her crew were Asian."

"Name?"

The master sergeant's brow furrowed as he tried to recall. Then he turned.

"Angelo!"

He had to shout over the noise of the flames. One of the Marines turned and trotted over.

"What was the name of the tramp steamer that brought the bales here?"

"Sea Spirit, sir. Saw it on her stern. New white paint."

"And under her name?"

"Under it, sir?"

"The port of registration is usually under the name at the stern."

"Oh, yes. Poo-something."

"Pusan?"

"That was it, yes, sir. Pusan. That all, sir?"

Dexter nodded. Marine Angelo trotted off. Dexter rose and went down to the end of the jetty where he could be alone and maybe pick up reception on his cell phone. He was glad it had been on charge all night. To his gratitude and relief, the ever-faithful Jeremy Bishop was at his bank of computers, almost the last facility Project Cobra had left.

"Can that motorized sardine can of yours translate into Korean?" asked Dexter. The reply was a clear as a bell.

"Any language in the world, if I put in the right program. Where are you?"

"Never mind. The only communication I have is this cell. What is the Korean for Sea Spirit or Spirit of the Sea? And don't waste my battery."

"I'll call you back."

It was two minutes later that the phone rang.

"Got a pen and paper?"

"Never mind. Just say it."

"Okay. The words are Hae Shin. That's aitch-aay…"

"I know how it is spelled. Can you look up a tramp steamer? Small. Named either Hae Shin or Sea Spirit. South Korean, registered Port of Pusan."

"Back in two minutes." The phone went dead. He was as good as his word. Two minutes later, Bishop was back.

"Got her. Five thousand tons, general-cargo freighter. Name: Sea Spirit. Name registered this year. What about her?"

"Where is she right now?"

"Hold on."

High over Anacostia district, Jeremy Bishop tapped furiously. Then he spoke.

"She does not seem to have a managing agent and she does not file. Anything. She could be anywhere. Hold on. The captain has an e-mail listing."

"Raise him and ask him where he is. Map reference. Course and speed."

More delays. The cell was ru

"I raised him by e-mail. Put the questions. He declines to say. Asks who you are."

"Say, this is the Cobra."

Pause.

"He is very polite, but insists he needs what he called 'authority word.' "

"He means 'password.' Tell him 'HAE-SHIN.'"

Bishop came back, impressed.

"How did you know that? I have what you wanted. Care to note it?"

"I have no goddamn maps here. Just tell me where the hell he is."

"Keep your hair on. One hundred miles east of Barbados, steaming 270 degrees, ten knots. Shall I thank the captain of the Sea Spirit?"

"Yes. Then ask if we have a Navy warship between Barbados and Colombia."

"I'll call you back."

East of Barbados, steaming due west. Through the Windward chain, past the Dutch Antilles and straight into Colombian waters. So far south, there was no way the Korean trafficker was coming back to the Bahamas. She had taken her last cargo off the Balmoral where she had been told. Three hundred miles; thirty hours. Tomorrow afternoon. Jeremy Bishop came back.

"Nope. There is nothing in the Caribbean."

"Is that Brazilian major still in the Cape Verde Islands?"

"As it happens, yes. His pupils are due for graduation in two days, so it was agreed that he could see that through, then retire and bring the airplane with him. But the two American comms people have been withdrawn. They're back stateside."

"Can you raise him for me? Any which way?"

"I can e-mail him or text on his cell."

"Then do both. I want his phone number, and I want him to be on it to take my call in two hours exactly. I have to go. I'll call you from my hotel room in a hundred minutes. Just have the number I need. Ciao."

He walked back to the floatplane. On the island the flames were flickering and dying. Most of the palms were scorched stumps. Ecologically, it was a crime. He waved a salutation to the Marines onshore and climbed into his seat.

"Nassau Harbor, please. As fast as we can."

He was seated in his hotel room within ninety minutes and called Bishop ten after that.

"I have it," said the cheerful voice from Washington, and dictated a number. Without waiting for the time rendezvous, Dexter called. A voice answered at once.

"Major Joao Mendoza?"

"Yes."

"We met at Scampton, and I have been the one controlling your missions these past several months. First, I want to offer my sincere thanks and congratulations. Second, may I ask a question?"