Chapter 04. The Serial Killers.
Upon successful completion of our first apprehension when we returned to the embassy we were issued upgraded passports that identified us as State Department Agents. Our badges were changed too. I think the original ones said something like 'in training,' but that phrase was gone now.
We already had automatic weapons and holsters and were authorized to carry/use them anywhere in Spain, Portugal, and Morocco. There were several countries that did not allow us to carry (Greece, Tunisia, and Algeria). But we could still use a knife, sprays, or physical force to apprehend or in self defense. I was not sure if the other countries knew we routinely carried Anthrax spray. The purpose of it was to disconnect their death from State Department agents due to the time delay. Most people quickly forgot about a slight scent of lavender and 95% of people were never aware they were sprayed.
One day someone came to the embassy begging for our help, we met in private with an elderly man in a small detention/interrogation room. You've surely seen rooms like this before: the room is 12x12, cement block walls, concrete floor and ceiling. Steel benches bolted to the walls, and one heavy steel table bolted to the floor. The table had one large steel ring in the center. Video cameras recorded everything seen and heard in the room. The two chairs were chained to the table legs so they couldn't be thrown.
Daniel and I didn't know why the man came to the US Embassy but we were asked to interview him, which was standard police work. We carried legal notepads and pencils into the room. The small elderly man was seated on a steel bench, he looked emotionally upset and very tired. He appeared to be in his late 70s, he had a full head of white hair, glasses, clean shaven, and was missing teeth. He spoke Spanish and introduced himself. We did not introduce ourselves but told him we were special agents with the US State Department.
He wore an ill-fitting old suit with moth holes all over. His narrow black tie, white shirt, black pants, and leather shoes suggested he wanted to be taken seriously. It took both of us to understand his emotionally upset voice. Dan told me later the old man's clothes reminded him of 1930s comedy actor Buster Keaton.
"I need your help, there is nobody else. My grandchildren are trying to get into Spain from Algeria. They paid the coyotes fifteen thousand dinars for transport, 130 miles from Oran to Cartagena where they would surrender as asylum seekers. The last I heard was they got on a leaky old fiberglass fishing boat with 70 other people seeking asylum in Europe. The coyotes buy these old boats that are no longer seaworthy, most need people to constantly bail water to keep them afloat. Every month they sell tickets to cross on these deathtraps, innocent people die crossing the sea. I fear this is what happened to my grandchildren, all four of them." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out color school photos of four children and arranged them by age on the table.
Daniel picked them up and looked at the backs. I asked how long ago these were taken. The old man (Octavio Bustamante) said they were school photos taken last year; his grandkids today would be ages 7, 9, 11 and 14, three boys and one girl. I asked if they knew how to swim. And he said yes, his grandkids all learned to swim before they learned to walk.
"How long ago did they get on the fishing boat to cross the sea?" I asked.
"Two months ago, I do not know the exact date. So far there is no sign anyone on that boat arrived in Spain. No bodies were found, no wreckage, nothing. They simply disappeared." He said with a tear in his eye while his hands trembled on the table.
"Do you have any information on the coyotes?" Daniel asked.
The old man reached into another pocket and took out a small slip of lined notepad paper. It had two names and the location where they boarded the fishing boat.
His notes said the children and the other migrants were instructed to meet on a small peninsula where they would board the boat. The peninsula area is called Fort Mers el-Kebir. The location is well known locally because of the ancient ruins. It is on the coast near the city of Oran in northwest Algeria. He also said they were the ones who accepted money in exchange for transport to Spain to join their grandfather. He said he heard they hid a small time bomb on the fishing boat so it sank quickly, far enough out that no bodies appeared on the beaches. As far as he knew most of the people these coyotes sent out to sea never arrived in Spain and were never seen again. He believed the coyotes were secret agents for an anti-Muslin group in the EU trying to stop the flow of refugees crossing from Africa. The two names he gave us were Harold Kane and Erliche Haaland.
We talked for another ten minutes then shook hands and he again tearfully begged for our help and I told him we had limited jurisdiction in Algeria due to treaties and this case appears to have nothing to do with the United States. He nodded and sniffled and after our interview he quietly shuffled out the steel door and left the security building. Just as he opened the door Octavio turned to David and said, "You find them, maybe they are alive, my heart feels they are alive somewhere crying for help. Nobody else cares but Americans care; you find them and bring them to me please."
Our next step was to do some homework, including looking into Octavio's history. Minutes later we had both computers downloading files on our list of actors, including Octavio's grandchildren, Octavio himself, and the coyotes. When it came to stories like his we believed no one.
Neither of us were exactly sure where to start looking. If his story was true it sounded like everyone on the boat drowned fifty miles from shore and probably went down with the fishing boat. We spent the rest of the day searching in restricted government databases that merged US State and EU Immigration with Interpol, CIA, and INR.
We found the names of his grandchildren listed as previous applicants for Visas in Spain, but the application was denied due to lack of evidence, lack of support in the host country, and no parental permission. They claimed both parents were deceased or missing in Algeria and their grandfather (Octavio) was on a tiny pension and lacked the means to support or even feed his grandchildren, so they would be an immediate burden on the EU. There was no state evidence of the death of their parents. The children were living on the streets in Oran begging and committing petty thefts for food and shelter. All four had arrest records for stealing food. Octavio lived in the hills west of Barcelona and owned a three acre farm where he hand-grew and harvested a small crop of the finest Sangiovese red wine grapes.
The two men Octavio said operated the refugee boat scam had criminal histories in Algeria and the EU. Interpol said their current location was believed to be in Oran working as longshoremen in the fish auction part of the Port of Oran. They have been arrested before accused of operating illegal immigration scams but the local police lacked the manpower to investigate. Both men had arrest histories for theft, fraud, assault, sales of forbidden substances within Algeria (heroin and alcohol), and sex crimes against women. Both men were deported from France eight years ago and returned to Algeria.
Octavio had an arrest record for brawling in a bar in Barcelona nineteen years ago, otherwise he was a law abiding elderly man who lived on his farm in the hills and was known to sell his wine crop to commercial harvesters who paid him in cash, so there were almost no state records about his true financial situation. That information led us to believe his clothing was a costume. Dan joked he walked two blocks away and got in his Range Rover and drove home.
The best we could determine from INR and Interpol files the kids' parents were truly dead, recently. Their mother was allegedly black bagged by modesty police this year, and after repeat run-ins with them she vanished one day. In Algeria that often meant she was taken to the hills, stabbed, and left for the mountain animals to eat. Her execution made the kids homeless, the youngest was four at the time. The father's whereabouts are unknown but he was reported missing, presumed dead four years earlier.
We have been told by several locals that if you were black bagged in those countries they drive you into the mountains and walk you into the hills and stab you once or twice in the abdomen, then you are left to bleed to death alone in the mountains with no water or shade.
After private consultation with the Ambassador we decided to go under cover by cargo ship to Oran and run our investigation. We'd wear local garb and Hollywood-grade facial hair appliances. I had to darken my skin because pale white was too noticeable. Daniel stained my skin (face, neck, hands/arms) and we applied eyebrows, mustaches and sideburns to look more Algerian on arrival. The freighter was due to sail from Barcelona to Oran loaded with produce (Algeria has soil that is not suitable for growing produce). Crossing the Sea on a rusty old oil tanker was a good way to casually stroll unnoticed into Algeria. The crossing takes about 52 hours in good weather. Before we left the ambassador handed us two bank envelopes to give her, they felt like they're full of Euros.
We plan to walk off the ship after dark and return to Barcelona on the same ship because it took a week to unload/re-load since they used manual labor instead of containers and robot cranes. The Port of Oran still operated like it was 1939 outside, but that was sort of a jobs program to them. I've heard it was super neat to stand on an upper deck at night during the crossing, lit only by the moon and pretend to be Humphrey Bogart and Peter Lorre watching for U-Boats.
We took a taxi to the port and had to ask where to go, but there she was - the ugliest ship in port. The freighter looked like it hadn't been painted since the day it was christened. In fact, I've seen shipwrecks with less rust. The common language on board was French. I can sort of understand French if it's spoken very slowly. Daniel can read some of it too. In Oran Arabic is the primary language and French comes in second place.
Daniel and I were assigned a small cabin with two bunks, a tiny closet, and a tiny stainless steel sink that hinged-up to reveal a tiny flush toilet underneath it. The sink drained into the toilet in the down position. I carefully checked both bunks for bedbugs but didn't find any, so the cabins had been recently cleaned. After leaving our bag in the room we went back out on the observation deck to watch them load it.
The ship carried pallets of cardboard boxes full of fresh produce to Oran since they can barely grow their own food; they trade diesel fuel for food. I heard someone say they had two entire decks converted to liquid storage tanks, for the past 18 years this freighter sailed back and forth from Barcelona to Oran delivering produce and diesel fuel on the return trip.
We watched as the crew loaded the ship in a well rehearsed pattern. The cargo they were loading was all grocery store produce in large cardboard boxes. Boxes stacked on common wood pallets and tightly wrapped in clear plastic sheeting. Two men with forklift trucks loaded four pallets onto a large fiberglass sled. Then two men walked up and tossed a heavy nylon harness over the top. Each sled had holes in the corner into which they inserted a steel plate on the end of each nylon rope. The four nylon ropes ended in a heavy steel ring on top. The large steel hook from a ship's crane flew over and lowered to the sled, someone hooked the steel ring and the crane operator lifted the sled to deck level, then over to the large opening and lowered it down one deck (Tween Deck) and set it on the floor. Other men with sled movers moved it inside the refrigerated hold then returned to grab another. This ship carried enough produce to feed most of Oran for three weeks. The produce was all grown in Spain, Portugal, and France. They traded diesel fuel from the state-owned refinery for produce from the EU. Once they calculated the value of the produce it determined how much fuel was loaded into the ship to send back to Spain. I heard some of the crew say the refinery was being converted into an LNG processor and storage station; they would phase out diesel soon.
We watched them load for almost an hour then suddenly it was over and preparations begun to immediately set sail.
The ship left Spain late Tuesday morning. We spent the time reading notes from State about Oran and previous CIA actions there. It looked like Oran was a quiet city with few natural resources, but it had a large rail yard and a very large commercial port that handled old fashioned cargo and some container cargo. There was a freight rail line that ran (north-south) across the Sahara Desert so land-locked African countries (Chad, Niger, Mali, and Burkina Faso) had access to shipping on the Mediterranean. That same rail line and port were used by the Germans, Italians, British, and Canadians in both world wars to supply their armies fighting across North Africa. Oran is a very old and notorious port city.
Eyeballing this old freighter it's about 500 feet long, 60 feet wide and it cruises about 10mph. If you look online for photos of 'Jeremiah O'Brien' you can see what this ship looked like 75 years ago.
We went back on the observation deck and watched them drop the heavy nylon ropes and a tug came along side and pulled it away from the pier and started it moving toward the seawall. With some careful maneuvering we slowly left the port and sailed out onto the Mediterranean Sea. The entire ship vibrated and rumbled as it slowly motored out of the port. I hoped the vibration might settle down once we got to cruising speed but it vibrated even more once we got away from land.
I thought I heard someone say this freighter was actually built in New York at the end of WW2, so it was a Liberty Ship but it had the modification to lessen the risk of her breaking in half. But here it is 75 years later, if it was going to crack in half it would have happened decades ago. It had four decks below the main deck. Two of them were converted into oil tanks and one was turned into a large refrigerated cargo deck with two huge refer units that ran all the time. The deck above the main deck was turned into 12 small (6'x7') passenger cabins and crew quarters, the next deck up was the food service area and officers quarters, and on top was the bridge and observation deck. She had three tall steel masts that were used as cranes for moving cargo.
A few hours later we were far enough from Spain that there was no sign of land from the observation deck near the bridge. All we could see was cloudless blue sky and mostly calm seas all the way around. Aside from the wake, it was impossible to tell the ship was moving.
We stood up there watching for any signs of ship wreckage or bodies floating on the water, and perhaps even a U-boat periscope. I stood near Daniel thinking about Jennifer and hoping she was safe and happy in Texas. Standing on the deck of a slow moving old cargo ship in the middle of the Mediterranean beneath the enormous starry sky made me feel insignificant. I was surprised there weren't more people on deck enjoying the show.
The food on board the ship was dreadful but at least we didn't get sick. We ate a mostly vegetarian meal with navy beans and rice, spicy fish sauce, steamed greens, and nasty thick black coffee that was like Folgers with powdered camel dung added. I guess the ship's mess philosophy was anything could be made safe to eat if it was boiled long enough.
Our first stop in Algeria will be the elderly agent who lived her entire life in Oran. We'll remain on board until after dark then leave the ship and take a taxi to her neighborhood and walk the rest of the way. We never met her but we've seen recent CIA video of her discussing the cultural history of Algeria. The lady is 62 years old and draws a secret US pension. She goes by the name Aafia Fadel, Dan said it's pronounced: ah-FEE-ya. She is 62 but looks 82 after a long life working in the harsh Sahara sunshine, supervising natural gas well drilling crews. She has a degree in civil engineering but is now retired.
Our CIA contact lived in a state-owned residential block; each building was eighteen stories tall. The embassy sent her a coded message over the wireless that we were coming. She lived in the southeast part of the city near the state technical university. We brought along traditional Oran clothing for men called the Djellaba (pronounced: jah-LAH-bah). It's an ankle length cotton robe that often had a hood (somewhat like Obi-Wan Kenobi). Most had long sleeves, ours were tan colored and had a zipper from the neck down to the stomach. We changed out of jeans and button down short sleeve shirts into plain white boxers and undershirts, then slipped on our Djellabas and feet coverings. We needed to be less noticeable to move around the city. We know many men in Oran wear jeans; we decided to look as non-distinct as possible.
About thirty hours later the coast of Africa was visible in the haze and I was ready to eat something that wasn't boiled to tastelessness, and a floor that didn't vibrate constantly. Although I must admit the vibration helped when I sat on the toilet I didn't have to push at all, it fell out!
One of the crew came into the passenger deck hallway and yelled in the hallway "LAND HO!" and people walked onto the boat deck toward the bow to see the first glimpses of land through the haze. It was like a faint dark line on the horizon straight ahead. It was a big deal to me, but for the ship it was just another crossing. Dan acted like he didn't care.
With the aid of one small smoky tugboat we felt the ship bump into the commercial pier; of course it was near the huge liquid storage tanks on shore. I was surprised to see how many other freighters were here. Our cargo was perishable so they quickly started unloading the ship with all three cranes. Aboard ship the men grabbed a swaying steel hook to catch the ring on top of a large sled then quickly lifted them off the deck and set them on the concrete pier. A swarm of men approached and released the nylon cable which sailed up to grab the next sled off the deck.
On the ground forklifts raced in and raised one pallet at a time and delivered them inside the back of refrigerated cargo trucks, then returned for another and another. Everyone worked fast and the entire cargo of fresh produce was offloaded the old fashioned way in less than four hours. It was interesting to see how well rehearsed and fast everyone operated. Daniel said the sooner the ship was unloaded the sooner the workers could go home.
Each pallet of boxed produce was tightly wrapped in plastic then a big sheet of paper was stuck to the side with a two digit number, like '09.' That number was also painted on one of the produce hauling trucks in Oran so the right skid went to the right markets.
After the produce was done a different crew came in and connected four large pipes to valves on the outside of the hull above the water line and as they turned the valves the hoses became stiff as thousands of gallons of diesel fuel flowed by gravity into the ship from large storage tanks on high ground two blocks away from the pier. We were told the diesel fuel came from southern Algeria and went by underground pipeline to the storage tanks 24/7, they constantly ran fuel from the refinery.
After the fuel pipes were flowing deckhands connected hooks on a steel gangway and used two cranes to lift it off the pier and carefully place it on mounts welded to the side of the ship. We stayed on the observation platform near the bridge to watch the show. When the gangway was placed it was 5pm, so we stayed on-board until the sun was down. Reason #2 for watching them unload the produce was to examine the port for the best place to leave unnoticed. We skipped lunch and dinner on board since much better food was within sight. I was so hungry my hands were shaky by the time the sky was dark.
We learned there was an officer onboard who could trade Euros for Dinars, we were advised to only use local cash in Oran and negotiate for everything. Dan had the best fake Arabic accent so he always handled the locals. I'd previously memorized the layout of Oran and the major roads, the airport, some of the stores, and the best places to hide should we arrive at the apartment complex and find Aafia was missing and her apartment full of police. It was kind of funny listening to Daniel try to sound Arabic with his Mexican accent.
His voice reminded me of someone we met who worked at Quantico in the mess hall. She was an older lady, born in Puerto Rico. But she grew up in a Polish neighborhood in Chicago so she also spoke fluent Polish. But listening to her speak Polish with a Puerto Rican accent just made me giggle.
At 7:45pm we walked down the gangway and disappeared into the vast cargo handling area. We previously studied the port on CIA images and saw the entire complex is fenced to stop people from sneaking in or out, but near the liquid storage tanks was a small employee entrance that sat wide open, so dressed like two local men we walked through the tunnel and into a residential/retail area outside the port. Nearby we approached a seafood shop and found a taxi driver eating some deep fried fish bits so Daniel asked if he was on duty and if he could drive us to the Technical University, we discussed money, he wanted 5,000 Dinar (fifty euros) which was high but he got him down to 4,500d and got in the back seat while the man quickly finished his fried fish particles.
I didn't recognize the car but it was small and marked as a licensed taxi, and his picture was on the permit displayed in the window behind the driver's seat. Oran has one divided highway but most of the main traffic routes are wide surface streets with no lane lines and lots of chaos. I had to stop watching the traffic after what I thought was us about to get T-boned a few times. There was a constant sound of horns honking and motorbikes with no mufflers.
Because of the huge Sahara Desert there was only one road going south but there were highways along the coast, so traffic in Oran was usually not bad. The city is rather isolated from the world, except by sea. There is a lot of traffic but they say 55% of the residents do not own a car.
Oran looked Third World to my Houston, Texas born eyeballs, but it was surprisingly clean. Oran looked poor in some areas but I never saw any tent cities. I think being poor in Oran might be a better life than poverty in New York or Chicago, but you had to be a practicing Muslim to collect bennies, like most Arabic countries. I've heard that in some US cities if you are caught shoplifting a hundred times they don't do anything to you, but in Oran after getting caught a few times you will disappear one day. I've heard they maintain a secret mass grave somewhere in the Sahara for career criminals. You get stabbed and tossed by your wrists and ankles into the pit on top of thousands of decomposing bodies, humans and animals together.
Twenty four minutes later we arrived at the city technical college, Daniel paid the driver (he accepted forty Euros) and we walked south toward a large complex of identical looking eighteen story apartment buildings. We saw very few cars but lots of bicycles and scooters around the university. We saw a bus network that ran all over Oran too. I was surprised to see the price of diesel fuel here was dirt cheap. Cheap fuel below cost was sort of a gift from the national government to increase commerce, improve the economy, and encourage tourism. I think the exchange rate was $1.39 a gallon for diesel. Most cars and trucks running in Oran were diesel. The weather in Oran was perfect for riding a bike or a scooter all year long. I've never seen so many bike racks in one place as I saw at their university.
After twenty minutes of walking we arrived at Building-5 and took the stairs to the second floor, Apartment-8 and saw the name tag on the doorbell button said: A. Fadel. Every door had a peep hole with a bell button below it so I pressed it hard and heard a mechanical bell ring inside. Through the door I heard a woman's voice and then we saw the light in the peep hole change, then the door slowly opened and a rather short blue/gray-haired lady smiled and leaned her head out the doorway and looked left then right then stepped back and excitedly gestured for us to enter quickly.
She silently shut the door slid the chain across the lock and then motioned to join her around an old kitchen table. Dan handed her the envelopes and she said "thank you" and tossed them on the kitchen counter. Her apartment was tiny but one entire wall was glass with a view of the courtyard and community gardens in the center of the complex. There were tall potted plants along the glass wall to help obscure the view inside her apartment. To me the plants looked plastic but it was like an entire wall of greenery. Outside the windows she had a balcony about fourteen feet wide and four feet deep with a steel railing. We saw lots of people hung laundry outside to dry in the dry desert air.
She knew who we were and switched to Spanish. Daniel handed her the list of names we needed information our State Department didn't have access to, somehow she was able to log into the Algeria national database and had the goods on all local residents. She carefully typed in the name of the first person using one finger only.
While she typed the name on her keyboard I watched her face. She was supposedly 62 but she looked like 82. Her skin looked badly wrinkled and her eyebrows looked like my grandfather's. Her nose looked like she'd been in a few bar fights, I could have asked her but I never learned how to say Bar Fight in Spanish. Her hair was very thin, I easily saw her scalp.
In Spanish she told us: "Harold Kane born Germany but immigrated to Algeria as a child and has been involved in black market smuggling and local theft gangs for two decades. He was considered by police to be a criminal but has never been convicted. Today at age 49 he was known to spend his days on the waterfront and was also a suspected coyote helping people sneak into the EU, or at least that is what he claimed. He admits being Muslim but has no affiliated mosque."
I asked if that mattered, not being active in any mosque while claiming to be Muslim.
Aafia said it does if you are in court claiming to be a good Muslim but many people do not attend services more than a few times a year because they are too busy trying to earn a living. If you are on trial for a crime you'll receive leniency for being an active Muslim. But if you are caught doing something strictly outlawed in the Koran your punishment might be harsher if you are a good Muslim because you should know better, and you bring shame to all Muslims.
She looked up at us and explained if you are questioned by police in Algeria they have questions they ask that anyone who went through Islamic teachings (Sunday School) would know the answers to. This is how they test if you are actually a Muslim or a fake. She said a common one was "Where was the Prophet born? What was the Prophet's wife's name?"
It took her several seconds to locate the second name: "Erliche Haaland was born in the Netherlands and came with his parents to Oran at age 9 and lived here ever since. He speaks fluent Arabic and claims to keep the Koran. He spent one year in prison for rape back in 1999. He is currently 54 years old, single, and has been treated multiple times for STDs and has been caught by police with liquor, which is forbidden in Oran. He says he is a fisherman and spends his days in the port buying and selling fish to stores, usually the fish that don't sell at the morning auction. He has been accused of operating a smuggling business on the waterfront helping people cross the sea to the EU. Then he smuggles American whiskey and narcotics back into Algeria."
Daniel asked her about the stories of boat loads of refugees leaving Oran but never arriving in Spain. She got emotional and couldn't speak for a bit then raised her hand to her mouth and said, "There are terrible stories of families fleeing Africa for safety in Europe, their boats were booby trapped to sink far from shore, just a simple small explosion on the hull and the boat sinks in less than minutes far out to sea. We believe six boat loads of civilians seeking asylum in the EU have vanished and they are being paid by people in the EU to sabotage the boats.
Aafia pointed to a framed school portrait of a young girl (standing on a shelf near the kitchen table), smiling, she looked like a teen and was wearing a thin blue hijab on her head, she told us her oldest granddaughter is also missing.
She continued to search through the databases and wrote down cell numbers, home address, next of kin, and stated occupation from tax forms. She also found primary care doctor and mosque preference.
We asked if these were bad men and she nodded yes and said, "Very evil men, they put money over human life." We thanked her and said we'd be paying them a visit soon. Before we left she showed us recent driver's license and passport photos of both men. I took shots of them with my cell (which was in airplane mode) and then we shook her hand and left into the darkness outside.
We took a taxi to the location of the morning fish auction, forty bucks.
I spent time in the taxi staring at the photos of the two guys we were searching for to burn them into memory. Daniel reviewed her notes looking for hidden info that might help us locate them. He said he found something in common that might have them working together, namely they both sold fish after the auction to local markets. The best fish usually sold early to the high priced sushi shops and high end restaurants, but these men were in the retail-grade fish business. They probably bought in bulk whatever didn't sell during the auction. The absolute highest grade fish was packed on ice in crates and flown immediately to Dubai and Doha. Sushi is not very popular in Oran.
Whatever fish didn't sell they'd make cash offers and took all those fish and sold them by the pound with a mark-up. Our task was to find out exactly where those fish were purchased and loaded onto trucks.
The taxi dropped us off in the port at 8:10pm. It was hot and humid outside. I saw a sign in French that caught my eye, "<--Criée aux Poissons" (<--Fish Auction). The arrow pointed to the left so we walked that way along the waterfront and approached a very large open-sided building. Inside two men were cleaning the floor with hoses and wide rubber squeegees. The building smelled like floor cleaning chemicals and dead fish, this must be the place. Daniel and I walked inside and asked the two men where the leftover fish were sold after the auction. One of them pointed to an area near the parking lot, "They load the trucks out there after the auction. Every day all fish are sold, none are left over. You see... no cats." He gestured to the entire warehouse and showed us if any fish were left the cats would appear, but no cats because no fish, everything is sold.
I laughed at his hypothesis and thought this was the place to hang out. Daniel asked what time the fishing boats started to arrive and the man said, "2am if the catch is large. Otherwise 3am and the auction starts at 4am and is finished by 5 or 5:30am." He said people can watch but they must stay behind the yellow line and keep their hands down. He pointed behind us to a line that went around the large open area, and then he gestured for us to get off his floor so they could continue cleaning. We waved and thanked them and walked outside.
Then we walked around the entire structure to the side by the pier where the fishing boats would tie up in 5-6 hours. We decided to hang out on the pier, maybe try to take a nap under the stars on the old concrete pier with the sound of gentle waves lapping against the old concrete piers. We walked out to the end of the concrete and laid on our backs staring at the stars for about an hour, I asked, "Tomorrow when our perps arrive, I assume they'll arrive together, right?"
"Yeah I think they would, it takes two of them to negotiate with that many retail buyers."
"I'm thinking about the crowd, and a big noise or commotion as cover. Spray and quickly leave the area. Maybe we can create some kind of distraction if things go badly."
"Car fire, trash can fire, shove someone into someone who is carrying something of value, then spray 'em and leave."
"Yep, I'm there." We spent the rest of the night on the concrete pier wishing we had some good old American junk food, like two burgers and fries instead of fish sauce on rice with soggy kale and weak tea. I mean kale is a garnish. People don't cook and eat parsley so why do they cook and eat Kale? That shit is nasty.
We both chuckled but knew this had to be done to satisfy the request Octavio made on behalf of his dead grandkids.
A few minutes later I asked Daniel if we ever checked if Octavio had money. He certainly looked poor but in the EU sometimes the elderly dress that way for safety and they could be very wealthy but live like poor folks on a tiny pension. He had very little in the bank but if he had millions in gold at home it wouldn't show up in any database. He mumbled that was why governments are pushing electronic money, to identify/locate secret wealth, cash in the mattress, gold in the jar buried in the yard. Even electronic money won't eliminate gold and diamonds, but you can't buy a head of lettuce with a diamond or a bitcoin.
The first boat that arrived woke us at 3:38am. We stood up and watched them unload large plastic tubs of fish, many fish still floppin' around. Over time more boats tied-up, unloaded, and left for the nearby harbor. The harbor and the port were in different locations along the Oran waterfront.
While we waited we saw a group of small kids standing around and David walked up to them and asked in lousy French if they knew where to get on the Coyote boats to Cartagena, they all pointed to the far corner of the port, then she said 'on the peninsula.'
We hung out watching the boats unload like a well rehearsed square dance. Slowly, the warehouse filled with large fish on pallets and some in large plastic tubs. Slowly, the buyers arrived looking like they just got out of bed. You knew all of them had a wad of cash in a pocket to pay for their purchases. Outside in the parking lot we saw a fleet of ugly refrigerated cargo trucks waiting to transport their catch, all of them with signs in Arabic on the side. Neither one of us could read Arabic. I think the trucks served all the markets within a 100 mile radius.
When the crowd in the warehouse got loud and they turned on the bright lights we moved inside behind the yellow line and watched for our targets to arrive. We did not have a plan yet for how to create a distraction, in fact we might not even need one. Daniel whispered maybe shut off the lights. He said all it might take is to grab the lid to a 55gallon drum and frisbee it up into the bare power lines, which would plunge the auction into darkness and chaos. So we got up and walked outside and eyeballed several drums with loose lids just below the incoming 7.2kv power lines, he shoved my shoulder and we laughed and moved back inside. Moments later our two targets arrived and stood behind the yellow line discussing today's catch and pointing out the largest fish of the day.
I asked if he was ready and Daniel said yes. He stepped closer to me and pulled out his tiny sprayer and showed me. His spray can was labeled Pepper Spray but it was full of powdered lavender fragrance and Anthrax spores. When the nozzle was pressed it released a metered and invisible cloud of deadly spores. We were immune to Anthrax, but the can also contained a small amount of Botulinum Toxin, maybe 8%. That addition boosted the spray to nearly 99.7% effective. But I should tell you what they told us in Quantico, the thing that actually determines if Anthrax is deadly is how soon after exposure it is treated with the correct antibiotic. But since the early stages look exactly like pneumonia most doctors will think 'oh, this is just another pneumonia, I've seen six of these today.' They do a chest x-ray and write a script for the wrong medication and the patient goes home expecting to slowly improve, but that treatment plan only guarantees their demise. There is only one antibiotic that halts Anthrax, and it is not one used to treat pneumonia, and it's expensive too. The doctor has to suspect Anthrax, which is very rare in most of the world. Natural Anthrax is usually only seen in grassy green areas of the world with large herds of grazing sheep.
If the target was unlucky enough to catch a few spores of Botulinum that get planted and activated in the lungs or eyes the patient eventually begins to have difficulty breathing which leads to respiratory failure and isolated muscle paralysis. Botulinum creates a substance that blocks nerve impulses, like the ones that make your lungs work.
We did paper-rock-scissors for who would toss the steel lid and who would spray our targets. He won and I walked back outside by the storage area of empty 55 gallon steel drums. I stood by the drums but faced the auction building. All around me were cargo trucks with their refer units running and water dripping. They might have picked up other refrigerated items to distribute and deliver, like meat and produce. Inside I heard the commotion increase as the starting auction bell rang loudly.
I could see Daniel standing close behind of our targets (Harold and Erliche). He flashed me the thumbs-up. I grabbed a lid and looked up at the wires nearly straight above me, perhaps eighteen feet above the pavement. I held one lid like a frisbee and stood there waiting to see if things got out of hand. While I waited for him to make his move I read the label on the lid, this drum held the concrete cleaner they used to sanitize the floors in the auction building, which looked to be about 100x150 feet.
When the auctioneer started moving down the aisles of fish and everyone's attention was on the show. Daniel inched up close behind both men and reached into his pocket and removed the cap, checked the nozzle was aimed correctly. He raised his hand behind the first man's right shoulder and gave him one metered spray. He slowly moved sideways and sprayed the second man the same way.
The pleasant lavender smell made people quickly turn their heads and sniff the air to inhale even more. It was unlikely anyone standing nearby would be exposed because the spores fell quickly after several seconds. Most of the time the target never knew they were sprayed, they only noticed the pleasant lavender scent and often turned their heads to look for the source. Some people expected to see someone carrying a large bouquet of purple flowers. But once the spores were inhaled a time bomb was planted in their lungs that is fatal (in 1-3 days) most of the time.
The trick to spritzing people (we were taught in Quantico) was to do it behind them, about straight out from their right shoulder blade, spray up and over their shoulder, and being that far back few people would see any movement in their peripheral vision. The sprayer put out a metered puff of mist sort of like a 1/3 ounce aerosol breath spray can. Research has shown the lavender helps the spores linger in the air for several more seconds.
About one minute after the auction bell Daniel emerged hiding the 'pepper spray' can in his hand and gestured toward the ship. We walked casually away from the warehouse full of the sounds of the auction and people shouting bids on Blue Fin Tuna and Swordfish. We moved around the west end and crossed between the buildings along the waterfront. We got 200 feet away from the warehouse and couldn't hear the auctioneer any more. It was still dark outside but the sky in the east was starting to turn deep blue.
It was almost a mile from the fish auction to where the freighter was loading tons of diesel fuel. Daniel said, 'Hang on a sec.' We stopped under a street light, he got out the spray can then reached into his pocket and dug out the cap and put it on and slid it back into his pocket then we resumed our walk.
We strolled along the waterfront looking at the ships and wondered what stories they could tell. I told Dan, "Its gonna take a month to get the fish stink outta my nose." He laughed and smacked my shoulder and softly mumbled, "Pussy."
We talked about Anthrax briefly; we were taught how to use the spray at the school in Quantico. It takes about 12 hours for most people to feel anything. Since Anthrax exposure is rare most doctors would never suspect it and simply treat the patient's symptoms, in many cases the added delay ensured the exposure is fatal. The hardest part of using it is not getting exposed yourself, so ambient air currents must be considered before the spray is used; always spray from an upwind position. We got anthrax shots at Quantico and supposedly we're immune but they stressed it's still best to avoid exposure.
The spray nozzles have an indent for the use of an aiming tube like the ones that come with a can of WD-40. In Quantico they showed us how to keep the spray can in the pocket, and then run a tiny plastic tube under your shirt, up your sleeve, across your shoulders and out a tiny hole near the shoulder on the other side so you can spray at face level someone you walked past without them seeing you move your arms. They get a nice whiff of lavender and it's over, they become the walking dead.
We've also heard of people walking around with a bunch of shiny foil helium balloons as a distraction for the tiny clear hose sticking out of their shirt sleeve. Most people look up at the balloons which raises their noses and increases intake of the spray.
The next day most victims start to feel like they might be coming down with a cold, that night they develop a productive cough, body aches, headache, and fever. Most take a nap which gives the spores even more time to activate and multiply. The greater the time delay the less likely they will survive. Most civilians do not survive since the exposure is seldom treated early enough with the one correct antibiotic. The next morning (32hrs after exposure) they feel horrible and are wheezing and working to breathe, that's when most of seek medical help. By 38 hours they are getting blue lips and finger tips and are often intubated. Most die a few hours after being intubated. For some people this timeline goes much faster. I've heard that intubating people hastens the disease, kills them sooner because it forces fungus colonies into the blood stream.
When we got back to the ship it was about 7:45am and the deck was a ghost town. We saw three large hoses connected to valves on the side of the ship, up high, just below main deck height. They looked fully erect from fluid pressure as they delivered fuel into the tanks. After the produce un-loading was finished the crew was released for the two days it took to fill the tanks. The nearby storage tanks could easily fill the ship by gravity since they sat on a hilltop near the perimeter of the port complex.
Since the dock area near the ship was deserted we walked up the gangway and inside to our cabin on the second level above the main deck. We got out of our costumes and used the bathroom. They had a male-only crew so the bathrooms were open all the time. I think I heard there were five bathrooms on board; this one was primarily for passengers and ship's officers. It had two shower stalls and four sinks, four toilets, and two urinals. The toilets were very tall so fluid didn't splash out in rough seas.
The bath water was salty and warm but it still felt okay. After that we went down to the dining room but it was torn down and empty. We grabbed packets of crackers and hot sauce packets and went back to our room and took naps until dinner time. I locked our cabin door and got on our bunks and told Daniel I thought he did a good job, I was glad we pulled it off! We rarely complimented each other.
"Was there any chance they didn't get a good sniff?"
"No way, we practiced that move so many times I can do it in my sleep. The bright lights over the auction let me see the mist and I saw both of them turn and sniff the air a few times. It was absolute genius to add lavender to the Anthrax." After a few seconds of silence he asked me if I remember the autopsy photos of the lungs of someone who died of anthrax.
"No, is it gross?" I asked. "Very, as the anthrax takes over the lungs begin to die and emit pus and goop, the patient coughs up chunks of bloody blackened lung tissue. It often crosses over from the lungs into the blood stream and the lymph nodes where they spread throughout the body and multiply rapidly and by then only God can save yer ass." Dan explained with the sound of happiness in his voice.
He explained Anthrax exists in nature, like with sheep (and wool) and other furry farm animals. Skin infections from anthrax (like sheep farmers) are deadly about 25% of the time. Inhalation exposure is deadly 80% of the time even with proper treatment. Inhaled anthrax spores can linger for months before activation and symptoms appear. Anthrax spores can exist on the ground for years. He said there are sheep ranchers who walk around with anthrax all year long. They told us in Quantico that wool growing animals in South America are also well known to create natural anthrax too.
I asked Daniel what a Spore was and he said it's a microscopic seed. "At the store you buy a packet of seeds to grow flowers outside. In the packet are a few dozen little things that are common seeds, they're dried and can survive outside in the sun and winter because they have a protective shell that under the right conditions will open and allow-in moisture which activates the parts inside and a plant begins to grow. Spores are like seeds, inside the lungs or the body it allows them to come back to life, just like seeds planted in the garden. So when you hear Spores just think seeds, except anthrax spores are microscopic.
On Sunday morning the freighter tanks were loaded and we left Oran for the Port of Barcelona, chugging across the Mediterranean at 9mph. The ship rode differently with all that weight on board, it changed the center of gravity and we seemed to ride much smoother. Two days later one of the crew shouted 'LAND HO' and everyone cheered a successful crossing from the observation deck in front of the bridge. Three hours later tug boats parked us where the adventure started along a commercial pier, the one with the big round storage tanks. First came the pipes to offload the diesel fuel cargo. Those pipes looked like the big hoses used by fire trucks to connect to a hydrant with big brass couplers.
As soon as they placed the gangway with the cranes we left with our single case and crawled out of the port via a hidden break in the fence. We walked to the main road and flagged a taxi and rode back to the embassy. He just stopped along the sidewalk and we hopped out. We can charge rides to the embassy to their account so we never have to deal with payment to the drivers ourselves. Everyone knew the drivers added miles when they filled in the paper charge slip that we had to sign and write our badge numbers.
At a computer in the main office I started typing our report while Daniel tried to contact Octavio, he said he left a voice mail asking him to call, we had good news. That day we ate like starving refugees in the dining room.
The next day when we got back from the laundry facility in the embassy (in the basement of Building-F) we found a large envelope partially stuffed under our apartment door. Dan grabbed it off the floor and we went inside and chained the door. On the outside someone hand-wrote, "Gracias! de O.B." Inside we found twenty thousand cash in Euros. I guess he heard that two men he reported to us just died mysteriously, or saw their obits online.
Daniel said he thought Octavio seemed like a nice guy, but don't cross him! I told him he loved his grandkids and was willing to risk everything to avenge them. He handed me half the cash and I added it to my stash in my bedroom in the first trunk under my bed.
I crashed onto my bed after pulling down the shades and closing the curtains and stared at the ceiling and considered that I really liked my job. I felt I could stay here for a long time doing stuff for Americans and locals who needed help from America.
Contact the author: borischenaz at mailfence