"Dirty Bop to Blighty"

FBI Special Agent Dawna Shepherd leaned on the railing of the Queen of Scandinavia’s top-most deck and glared at the Norwegian coast.  July sun glinted off saltwater and sea gulls argued over the thrum of four engines as the ferry plowed between a long, windswept island and the scenic shore.  Morose, Dawna inhaled coconut-scented suntan oil overlaid by diesel exhaust fumes and tried to relax her taut shoulder muscles.  Why was she feeling so twitchy?

She was supposed to be herding 18 East European police officers through an on-board conference, but she’d left them congregated at the open-air Sky Bar where most were enjoying a late afternoon smoke break.  She’d climbed one deck higher to avoid conversation while she tried to pinpoint what was setting off her b.s. detector.

When she spotted Armenian cop Alek Talatinian peering at her from the top of the stairs, she knew her time for thinking was up. Threading his way through half-clad ferry passengers sunning themselves, he bounced with each stride and the strong sea breeze was ruffling his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair to an Einstein-do.  Clearly, he was bursting to tell her something.  Like the other participating cops, he was a graduate of the 8-week leadership training course offered by the FBI-sponsored International Law Enforcement Academy, the ILEA, in Budapest.  Dawna had been his class coordinator and she’d seen him single-handedly resolve the mock bank robbery that was a standard part of the course.  Man was sharp--and excitable.

She put her concerns on hold and returned to the only task she’d been given by the conference leader: keep the participants focused on the training topic.

Alek was in his mid-forties--at least five years older than Dawna and definitely five inches shorter than her six-foot-three.  And he was very pleased with himself.

“You cannot fool me,” he crowed.  “I know you what you are planning.”

“Of course you do.”  Dawna relaxed with her back against the railing to avoid towering over the hirsute Armenian and tilted the brim of her ball cap to give him a clear view of her lips as she spoke slow, non-Texas English.  “The conference agenda states precisely what will happen during the modules tonight and tomorrow morning before we dock in Newcastle.”

“Dawna, Dawna, Dawna.”  Alek was shaking his head.  “You underestimate me.  I see how the conference structure fails to support the official conference goal.”

Had he spotted the same anomalies she had?  “Spell it out for me,” she said, folding her arms.

“Supposedly, we are here to jointly address the problem of illegal migration from China to the United Kingdom.”

“And we just had two three-hour lectures giving us all the facts,” Dawna reminded him.  The morning and afternoon sessions with teams from Europol and Scotland Yard had emphasized that after the US hammered shut the preferred harbors in America, the number of Chinese entering British ports illegally had sky-rocketed.  Fujian province alone sent 100,000 souls abroad every year.  A United Kingdom destination was now half the price of one in the US.  When the illegals were inside British borders, they disappeared into what had become the largest Chinese community in Europe.

ILEA-partners UK and Europol had jointly proposed the two-day conference to educate and brainstorm with law enforcement officers from countries transited by the Chinese.  They’d supplied the simultaneous English-to-Russian translator and the PowerPoint programs in English and Cyrillic.  And they’d also chosen to hold the event on board a ferry, insisting this venue would demonstrate the smugglers’ favorite means of bringing the illegals into Britain.  Dawna repeated the party line.  “Cooperation among you ILEA grads is key to addressing the problem.”

“But cooperation in this group is impossible!”  Alek blew air across his lips, a splutter of disbelief.  “We Armenians have been at odds with the Georgians and the Azerbaijanis since the beginning of the last century.  We can’t work with them.  And the cease-fire between the Russians and Georgians may fail at any moment.  Perhaps, Ukrainians and Moldovans share a common interest in stopping the traffic in women from their countries, but that puts them in direct conflict with the Russians.  We will accomplish nothing together.”

Dawna agreed with Alek.  She was about to say so but he barreled on without a pause.  “I think your reason for choosing us is because we all understand Russian.  You need a common language since you plan to drag us from our sleep tonight and force us to deal with one of your famous simulations.  Tell me I’ve guessed correctly.”

Dawna shook her head.  “Can’t do that.  I have no instructions to yank anyone out of bed.  Look, you make a good point about the participant mix.  I wasn’t personally involved in the selection, but maybe the organizers decided it was time to encourage you to cooperate.  So don’t read too much into the Russian-speaking thing.  You’re attending a senior alumni conference.  We don’t typically include the type of hands-on training exercise you experienced in Budapest.  And certainly not at night, disturbing 1500 civilian passengers who’d be sure to get in our way.”  She could see that Alek wasn’t convinced.  “Something else bothering you?”

“The route is wrong,” Alek replied promptly. “If you were serious about educating us on this issue, we would follow the same path used to move the illegals.  We would embark from Calais or Amsterdam and experience first-hand what the British authorities are dealing with.  Instead, you distract us with spectacular views from every conference center window today.  Tonight, we will be at your mercy in the middle of the North Sea.  And the timing--so soon after the summer solstice, we will have light enough for whatever midnight drama you stage.”  He lifted his chin.  “I, for one, am doing what you trained us to do.  Preparing my own plan to pre-empt yours.”

“On the basis of such weak evidence?”  Dawna managed a convincing laugh.  “Wrong mix and wrong route?”

Alek folded his arms to match hers.  “How about the fact that those rockers speak American English?”

“You mean the British Hells Angels?”  Dawna’d spent a year in the FBI’s biker crime unit and she recognized the European designation for gang members.  This morning she’d watched with interest when the six Harley-Davidsons rumbled on board.  All the riders had sported HA of UK patches.  “You heard them talking American?”

He imitated her accent.  “Jes’ like you-all, pardner.  And each of them has movie-star teeth.  Of course, they are undercover operatives.  Here to act out a terrorist take-over of the ship is my guess.  If I look carefully, I am sure I will find others hidden among the crew.”

Dawna sighed.  “I see you won’t give up easily.  Tell you what, I’ll double-check with the conference leader.  Put your pre-emptive plan on hold and concentrate on illegal migration until I get back to you.”

Alek unfolded his arms and gave a slow nod.  “I trust you, Dawna.  I remember what you call your cardinal rule.  Never promise what you can’t deliver. If you tell me nothing will happen tonight, I know nothing will.”

A blast from the ferry’s horn cut him off.  Dawna glanced at the approaching harbor and checked her watch.  The ferry was docking in Stavanger, the last port of call before turning southeast toward Newcastle.  “I need to freshen up,” she told Alek.  “I’ll see you in the conference center in 20 minutes.  We can resolve this pretty quickly.”

“You can,” Alek corrected her.  “I will rely on you.”

Giving him a wave, she headed down the stairs, the first leg of her descent from deck 10 to deck 4 where her cabin was located.  This break had done nothing to calm her.  She’d made the same two observations with which Alek had begun.  He was right about the participant mix.  Her past assignments in Budapest had shown her who could work together and who could not.  Combining the folks in this group was counter-productive.

But the Department of Homeland Security was the lead US agency on illegal immigration and they’d organized the conference without seeking Dawna’s input.  Without inviting her, in fact.

She was here only by chance because she’d been assigned to Copenhagen for the summer, filling in for the vacationing FBI legal attaché covering Scandinavia.  She’d ended up also handling the duties of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement attaché because Homeland Security couldn’t fill the position fast enough.  Then, illness left Homeland Security one staffer short for this illegal migration conference and she’d been tapped as a last-minute sub--apparently by someone who hadn’t first cleared her selection with William Keedy, the conference leader.  Last night, his welcome had been lukewarm and he’d brushed off her attempt to be briefed with a breezy insistence that she’d be up to speed in no time.

Weaving between clusters of passengers, Dawna reminded herself that she’d tried to ease her nagging disquiet about the ferry route by telling herself the Bergen-Newcastle choice was an economy measure.  Tired of paying the one thousand pound fine for every illegal their ferries transported to Britain, a Danish shipping company had offered use of the Queen’s on-board conference facilities gratis.  As soon as Dawna got this assignment, she’d Googled the ship and learned it was built in 1981 and was less technologically advanced than more modern ocean liners.  Yet the mirror- and glass-accented interiors conveyed an impression of luxury.  Combined with the onboard casino and disco, plus its scenic route, the ferry package undercut the educational goal.  You want people to treat illegal migration seriously, you don’t take them on a minicruise.

And now Alek had raised that third red flag.  If the boat was secretly packed with Department of Homeland Security operatives, Keedy might well be preparing a training surprise for the participants.  But why was he surprising Dawna?  Certainly not to make either her or the Bureau look good.

She wouldn’t allow him to blindside her. 

Read the whole story in the September 2010 issue of ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE

©2010 Diana Deverell