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the day before. He was reasonably certain the Nicaraguan cargo was about to be transshipped.
     
    Twenty minutes later the Marianna docked, her rusted hull showing clear signs of too many years at sea and too little maintenance. Wallace glanced at his watch wondering why his backup was delayed, and why they hadn’t called. He could not wait for them much longer. He was running out of time. Again, he scanned the parking lot. There was still no sign of the backup car. He waited a few minutes more before apprehensively boarding the Marianna.
    The captain was already standing at the top of the gangplank when Wallace finally boarded. Nauseating filth greeted him as he followed the sloppy master into the ship’s wardroom. Revolted, he eyed an empty soup can sitting on a table; a half eaten drumstick abandoned on a dirty plate for heaven knew how long. The surface of the table was strewn with days-old crumbs. Wordlessly, the captain handed him the manifest and pointed to the table for Wallace to sit.
    Wallace sat and swept the crumbs away with disgust. He scrutinized the document with studied disinterest while the captain, eyelids drooping over eyes reddened by lack of sleep, watched. The minutes ticked by. The captain began shifting impatiently on his feet. Wallace ignored him. He needed all the time he could buy. There was still a chance his backup would arrive. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked for any new text messages. There were none. A chilling feeling of anxiety began to wash over him in a light sweat. He was facing having to go through with the inspection on his own. He kept up the pretense of reading the manifest for as long as possible, then praying his backup had arrived, he looked up at the captain and said, “I’ll be inspecting your cargo today, Captain.”
    Aghast the captain stared at Wallace, his bleary eyes suddenly awake. “ Que diablo esta pasando aqui , what the devil!” he blurted. With trembling hands he pulled a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, the cigarette between his stubby fingers still unlit. His mind was in turmoil.
    Wallace gave him a steady look. “I’m following standard procedure, Captain. And by the way, I speak Spanish.”
     
    His business with the captain put on hold for the moment, Wallace descended the Marianna’s gangplank feeling doubly on-edge. The sun was now rising over the horizon throwing a shimmering path of silver across the harbor. In the parking lot in the distance, the absence of the backup car told Wallace something had gone wrong. But it was too late to reverse course. The wheels had already been set in motion. His mind swiftly moving to plan two, Wallace stepped inside the Customs building.
    A two-way radio crackled to life on the dock. The giant pressed the receive button. “Dock here,” he answered.
    “ Amigo , you know about a cargo inspection this morning?”
    The giant’s eyes narrowed as they moved from the Nicaraguan freighter to the Customs building. “Who told you that, man?”
    “The inspector who was just on board.”
    Frowning, the giant looked towards the Customs building again. He spoke into the two-way radio, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it at this end.” Then he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a call.
     
    On the upper floor of the Indies Shipping building, an elegantly suited man with thinning hair opened the morning paper his personal assistant had just placed on his desk. He hadn’t read further than the front page when his private line rang. He glanced at the caller ID. From the number displayed, he knew the call spelled trouble. He gestured for his assistant to give him privacy and picked up the phone as she left closing the door behind her.
    “Yes? What is it?”
    “Code Red, boss.”
    Irritation flashed in the man’s eyes. Code Red meant one thing only – an obstruction to the operation by law enforcement. He checked his watch. The