The Gray Ghost by Clive Cussler
Before she could answer, a heavy middle-aged man stepped from the doorway behind her, extending his hand in greeting. “Monsieur Oren. A pleasure.”
Oren shook his hand, looking past him into the empty office. “Where’s Rossi?”
“He’s on his way to Calais to make sure that your order is ready for shipping. I’ll order a car to be brought ’round.” Marchand waved a hand toward his office. “Please, come in, sit. Would you care for a cup of coffee, or something else to drink, while we wait?”
“No, thank you,” Oren said, as Marchand took a seat behind his large mahogany desk. Oren eased into the leather armchair near the window. “I was under the impression that Rossi was going to meet me here, and we’d drive out together.”
“For which he sends his apologies. He felt it necessary to make sure everything was prepared for shipping. Of course, I shall accompany you to the warehouse personally, once the transfer is made.”
“That wasn’t our agreement,” Oren said, forcing himself to remain calm. He’d already been duped before, which resulted in the car being stolen from his own warehouse. That theft he’d deal with, once he found out who was behind it. This time he wasn’t about to let the car out of his sight. “The transfer will be made when I see the car and verify that it’s the vehicle as described. Until then, the money remains in my account.”
Marchand looked through the open door at his receptionist, who was sitting at her desk, then looked back at Oren. “Monsieur Rossi’s reputation is without question,” he said, his voice sounding strained and on edge. “If he says the car is there, it’s there. To suggest otherwise—”
“Is prudent, and good business,” Oren replied. “Perhaps, though, I need to point out why I’m taking such precautions. This car was stolen from my warehouse less than a week ago. As such, I am paying good money for the return of property that is rightfully mine to begin with.”
“Understand that Monsieur Rossi is merely brokering the deal. He does not involve himself in such matters.”
“While I respect his position, I take offense that he’s not respecting the terms of our agreement.”
“What terms?”
“That my purchase was conditional. I see the car in person, he gets the money. In that order. If he can’t honor those terms, I’m prepared to walk away,” he said, though he had no intention of doing so.
Marchand stared at him for several seconds, then sputtered, “You’re expecting me to call him with your demands?”
“In fact, yes. I’ll wait.” When Marchand failed to pick up the phone, Oren stood. “Or explain to him why I left.”
“Monsieur, there is no need to be hasty. It’s just that I’ve never yet run across anyone who’s doubted the word of Lorenzo Rossi. It’s simply not done.”
“And yet, I’m doing it.”
“Please, have a seat,” he said, picking up the phone, pressing a button. “I’m calling now.”
Oren returned to the chair, his eye catching on a compact dark rectangular object on the windowsill just visible beneath the right curtain panel. He pulled the curtain aside, picked up a mobile phone, pressing the home button. The screen lit up. But when he tried to get beyond the home screen, he found it was locked. “Yours?” he asked Marchand.
“No.”
“A rather odd place for a phone, don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps it was left by the lady who was— Ah, Monsieur Rossi.” He held up a finger and started speaking French, a language Oren did not understand. He did, however, recognize his own name in that conversation, and assumed Marchand was informing him of his demand to see the car. That, he wasn’t worried about. This phone, however . . . left by a woman . . . “What woman?” he demanded.
Marchand hesitated in his conversation with Rossi. “Pardon?”
“You said a woman left the phone. Who was she?”
“The lady was here to inquire about shipping services. She must have left the phone there when she was admiring the view.”
Oren looked out the window, saw what, in his mind, was only a pedestrian view of the river between the buildings. Not something worthy enough to forget a phone. He gripped the device, suspicion fueling his already mounting anger over the delay in getting back the Gray Ghost. That Fargo woman had infiltrated Rossi’s villa the night of the auction. No doubt she was here, trying to learn the location of the Ghost. “Let me talk to Rossi.”
“Monsieur Oren would like to speak with you,” Marchand said into the phone. He pressed a button on the receiver. “You’re on speaker.”
Oren approached the desk. “When you were here in the office earlier today, did you mention the location of the warehouse?”
“Why do you ask?” Rossi said.
“I believe Remi Fargo was here. She left behind a mobile phone. If I had to guess, in order to listen to the conversation in your manager’s office.”
“Marchand,” Rossi’s sharp voice cut in. “Please explain what he’s talking about?”
“A lady was here earlier, looking for shipping management. Monsieur Oren seemed concerned with her presence.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”
“If you recall, I did. I was not, however, aware I should be suspicious of anyone inquiring services. We do run a legitimate business here.”
There was a stretch of silence on the other end of the line. Oren pictured Rossi seething at the thought that he’d been victimized by the Fargos yet again. Finally, Rossi spoke. “The very idea that they managed to get the location from me or my manager is absurd.”
“Not absurd,” Oren said. “So I ask once again. Did you mention the location of the warehouse?”
“The most they would’ve heard is that we were en route to the warehouse. No address given. And since I’ve just arrived at the warehouse and have seen the car with my own eyes, I’m quite certain your fears are unmerited.”
As much as Oren wanted to believe him, he’d already had enough experience to know the Fargos could easily slip past the most secure barriers. “Do not underestimate them. Or are you forgetting who it was who robbed you at the villa?”
“Not likely. I particularly remember the video of you riding the elevator with the woman.”
Tempted to point out that it was Rossi’s lack of proper security that had allowed the Fargos to breach his walls in the first place, Oren brushed aside the barb. Trading insults was not in either of their best interests right now. Recovering the car was his first priority. “Keep an eye out for the Fargos. Make sure that you haven’t been followed. I’m on my way there now.”
71
Sam and Remi ducked behind a row of parked cars in a lot down the street from a busy warehouse, Sam watching through his binoculars as Rossi stood on one of the loading docks, talking on his phone. After several minutes, he ended the call and returned inside, pushing open a glass door of the warehouse’s office. Sam had a clear view and he quickly scanned the grounds. A forklift on the dock backed up with a full pallet of cartons, beeping as it maneuvered toward one of the trucks. Beyond the open bay doors were row upon row of boxed goods, on pallets and on shelves. To the right, adjacent to the property and secured behind a razor-topped chain-link fence, was a yard filled with metal shipping containers stacked two high.
“You think it’s in one of those containers?” Remi asked.
“I doubt it’s out there. Something that valuable, they’re keeping inside under lock and key.”
“I knew this was too easy.”
In truth, it had been. There were enough taxis leaving the station that Sam and Remi wouldn’t stand out, and they easily followed Rossi’s cab, until it turned into the industrial area. Sam directed his driver to continue past, then double back. “One thing in our favor,” Sam said, lowering his binoculars. “We still have time before they ship it out. Oren’s not here, yet.”
“What
An unarmed security guard in a light blue shirt with patches on the sleeve stepped out of the building behind them. Tall, slim, white hair and beard. The expression in his green eyes was wary as he approached.
“I’ve got this,” Remi whispered. She stood, smiled sweetly at the man. In French, her accent impeccable, she said, “We’re private detectives. Hired by the wife of the warehouse owner across the street. Messy divorce, and he’s refusing to pay child support because he insists he’s losing money. She’s certain he’s hiding profits.”
The man’s look of wariness suddenly changed to one of understanding, as he regarded her and Sam. “That might explain some of the unusual activities we’ve seen. One of my guards reported a truck being unloaded there late one night. I remember thinking it odd, when I read his report.”
“What night was that?” Remi asked.
“Wednesday, I believe. I’d have to check the report. Whichever night it was, they were in and out pretty quick.”
Sam met Remi’s eyes. That would fit the time line of when the Ghost was stolen from Oren. Sam’s French was too stilted. Last thing they wanted was to arouse the guard’s suspicions, so he gave Remi a slight nod.
“Did your officer include in his report anything unusual about the truck?” Remi asked.
“Besides the late hour? Just that they drove the truck in, dropped off a shipping container, then left. If he’s hiding something from his wife, it’s probably there.”
Remi and Sam both turned toward the warehouse, seeing two trucks backed up to the docks, the doors open, the forklift drivers moving in and out as they loaded them with full pallets.
The security guard nodded toward the right side of the warehouse. “That third door is where they unloaded the container.”
“It’s still there?”
“The container? That I can’t say. It’s been closed up tight ever since.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, reading a message on the screen. “As much as I sympathize with your plight, my employers are on their way here. They’re acquainted with Monsieur Rossi, the owner. Friends, even. I don’t believe they’ll be so understanding if they discover you here.”
“Thank you,” Remi said. “We’ve seen enough to file our report.”
He returned to the building, opened the door, stopped, looked back, his green eyes alight as he regarded them. “Not that I’m the expert, but if I wanted a better view, I’d walk around the corner and approach from the west.”
They thanked him again, but he’d already disappeared inside.
Sam lifted his binoculars and took one last look inside the warehouse. A wall separated the main area from the third bay. A closed door near the loading dock led into it, but they’d never be able to get inside that way. Not without being seen. There was a fenced yard on the west side, filled with shipping containers. That meant there should be an exterior door leading into the building. “Let’s take a walk.”
He and Remi headed down the street toward the corner, crossing once they were out of sight of anyone inside Rossi’s warehouse. Other than the dozens of shipping containers stacked in the yard, the west side of the building appeared deserted. A door toward the back of the structure gave them hope they might actually have a way in. He and Remi followed the chain-link fence topped with razor wire until they reached a gate secured with a padlock. Sam picked it, and they slipped in. Pea gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked between the containers, almost covering the soft beep of a forklift coming from behind the building. They reached the end of the row. Sam looked out, then ducked back, as the forklift shot around the corner, driving straight toward them.
72
As Sam and Remi sank back between two containers, the forklift driver stopped at the end of their row, maneuvering toward the stack of containers, the metal clanging as he slid the forks under the topmost one. A steady beep sounded as he backed away with it, disappearing behind the warehouse.
When he was gone, Sam looked at the fresh marks in the gravel, which exposed the dirt beneath, in the empty row next to them. “We need to hurry. He may be back.”
They crossed the open space toward the building, Remi taking the corner, to watch for the forklift driver, Sam going up to the door, the sign posted on it, in both French and English, announcing that it was an area restricted to authorized personnel only.
He picked the dead bolt, signaled Remi over. Once inside, he closed and locked the door behind them. The sounds of the busy warehouse next door filtered through the walls. Skylights lit the space, a lone shipping container in the center of the floor. Thankfully, the doors of the container faced away from the front of the warehouse and the office doors and toward the overhead door. Sam lifted the hasp, metal scraping against metal as he pulled open the container.
The entire front end was filled with boxes, stacked side by side, on two pallets. “Not what I expected to see,” Remi said.
Sam saw a pallet jack against the wall and rolled it toward the container, the wheels squeaking. “If you were going to hide a thirty-two-million-dollar car in a shipping container, would you risk boxes tumbling down and possibly damaging it?”
“Definitely not.” Remi, hearing muted voices on the other side of the door, looked that direction. “But we don’t even know if the car’s in there.”
“I’d stake our last two hundred euros on it. With Rossi’s sideline as a broker of stolen goods, he’s getting that stuff in and out of the country somehow.”
“Shipping containers filled with fake fronts of real boxes?” Remi said.
“Exactly.” He guided the jack by its tiller, pushing the forks beneath one of the pallets and raising it. As he pulled back, he felt how light the load was as it rolled, and it confirmed what he’d suspected. The entire pallet was stacked with empty boxes secured together.
Light filtered into the dark space behind it, and he could just make out a canvas-covered shape inside about the size and shape of the Gray Ghost. “That is a beautiful sight. Let’s get this other pallet out.”
She looked back at him. “We can’t just roll the car out.”
“It might be our only option,” he said, testing the weight of the other pallet, also too light to have anything in the boxes. “If we can get that overhead door open, once the car is in public view, Rossi can’t exactly say he didn’t know it was there. If he’s smart, he’ll back off and claim he had no idea it was the Gray Ghost. The police will come, do an investigation, and the Ghost goes home.”
“But Albert’s still in jail.”
“One thing at a time, Remi.” He pulled his flashlight out of his backpack, shining it into the container and under the car to see how it was secured for shipping. Nylon straps and wheel blocks. For an hour-and-a-half ferry ride, probably good enough.
And to their advantage. All they needed to do was call the police and—
The motor connected to the overhead door started to whir. “Sam,” Remi whispered, looking into the container, then back toward the door as voices drifted toward them.
Sam returned the jack to the wall and followed Remi into the container. “Help me move the pallet back in place.”
They grabbed the wooden frame, dragging it back so it was even with the other pallet, hoping the scrape of wood against metal would be covered by the sound of the overhead steel door rising. Once the pallet was in place, he and Remi felt their way in the dark to the back of the Ghost, crouching beneath the canvas covering it.
Remi took his hand. “What happens when they discover the container door open?” she whispered.
“We’re about to find out.” He drew his gun, resting it on his knee.
At first, they heard nothing but their own breathing. A moment later, footsteps, followed by someone saying, “Who left the container open?”
“I thought I closed it. Was the door locked?”
“Of course
“Open it. Make sure the car’s still there.”
Sam heard footsteps, the squeak of the pallet jack as someone rolled it over, shoving the forks under the pallet, then rolling it out. Light filtered in beneath the canvas along the sides of the container. As Sam gripped his gun, he felt Remi tense beside him.
One of the men pulled the canvas up from the front, revealing the Gray Ghost. “Still here. Why? What’s wrong?”
“The buyer found a phone in Marchand’s office. He thought someone might be following Rossi.”
“If they were, they didn’t find anything.”
“Let’s cover it up. This thing’s shipping out.”
“I thought the buyer wanted to examine it first.”
“He called back. He wants it out of here on the very next shipment. Worried that someone will get to it before he does.”
The other man laughed. “And what? He thinks somebody’s going to spirit it out of here? They’d be dead before they ever made it past the door.”
They dropped the canvas over the front of the car and moved the false front back in place. The darkness returned.
“Crisis averted,” Sam whispered. But then they heard the clang of metal, followed by the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking shut as someone secured the container’s door closed.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Of course,” Sam said, as he holstered his gun and lifted the canvas. He felt his way to the front of the container.
A moment later, Remi joined him. “I hope you have a plan.”
Sam took out his cell phone to see if there was any chance of a signal. None. “I’d say we’re going to ride this thing to the UK.”
“And then what?”
He shined his flashlight on the Gray Ghost.
“That, Remi, is a darn good question.”
73
Sam and Remi climbed into the front seat of the Gray Ghost. At least they would have a comfortable ride. To Remi, being trapped inside the box of metal was unnerving. But that was nothing compared to the helpless feeling when the container was actually being moved onto the back of the truck, which rumbled down the street a few minutes later.