Elephant Song - Smith Wilbur - Страница 45
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It ceased, if it had ever been.
He waited for a hundred beats of his racing heart but it did not come again. He switched on the torch and the light dispelled his unease.
He moved softly down the aisle between the masses of trade goods and bales and crates. He had seen the pantechnicon parked in the end bay.
That's the place to start, he assured himself and he sniffed the dark air for the smell of dried fish.
He stopped abruptly and switched off the torch. Once again he had sensed something, not definite enough to pin-point, not loud enough to be a sound, just a premonition that something was close by in the darkness. He held his breath and there was a whisper of movement, or of his imagination. He could not be certain, but he thought it might be the brush of stealthy footfalls perhaps, or the gentle sough of breathing.
He waited. No. It was nothing but his nerves. He moved on down the dark warehouse. There were no interior walls in the building, only pillars of angle iron supporting the roof, separating the spaces between each of the bays. He stopped again, and sniffed. There it was at last.
The smell of dried fish. He went forward more rapidly, and the smell was stronger.
They were stacked against the end wall of the furthest bay, a high pile of sacks, reaching almost to roof level. The smell was strong.
Printed on each sack were the words: Dried fish.
Product of Malawi. together with a stylised rising sun emblem with a crowing cockerel surmounting it.
Daniel groped in his bag and brought out a twelve-inch screwdriver.
He squatted before the pile of fish sacks and began to probe them, stabbing the point of the screwdriver through the weave of the jute sacks, and then working it around to feel for any hard object packed beneath a layer of dried fish. He worked quickly, five or six quick stabs to each sack as he passed, reaching up to the sacks above his head, and then scrambling up the pyramid to reach the summit.
At last he stopped and thought about it. He had presumed that the ivory would be packed inside the fish sacks, but now he reconsidered and discovered the fallacy of his original theory.
If Ning Cheng Gong had indeed transferred the ivory from the refrigerator trucks t&, Chetti Singh's pantechnicon, then there certainly would not have been the opportunity to repack it in the sacks and seal them during the few hours before Daniel had intercepted Chetti Singh on the Chirundu road. The very best they could have done was to lay the ivory on the floor of the cargo bed and pile the fish sacks over it.
Daniel clucked his tongue with annoyance at his own impetuosity. Of course, the fish sacks were too small to contain the larger tusks of the hoard, and they would make an impossibly flimsy packing in which to smuggle the ivory out of Africa to its final destination, wherever that might be. The heavy pointed tusks would surely work their way through the outer layer of fish and rupture the woven jute sacks. Damn fool.
Daniel shook his head. I had a fixed idea He flashed the shaded ruby beam of the torch about, and his nerves jumped tight. He thought he saw something big and dark move in the shadows at the extreme range of the beam, the glint of animal eyes, but when he steadied the torch and stared hard, he realised that it was his imagination again.
Getting old and windy, he rebuked himself.
He slid down the pyramid of fish sacks to the floor, then he hurried along the aisle between the mountains of goods. He examined the labelling on the packing cases as he passed. Defy Refrigerators, Koo Canned Peaches, Sunlight Soap Powder.
Each case consigned to Chetti Singh Trading Company. It was all incoming cargo. He was looking for an outgoing cargo.
Ahead of him he made out the shape of a fork-lift truck standing high on the loading ramp near the main doors. As he moved towards it he saw a large case balanced on the fork arms of the truck. Beyond it, almost blocking the ramp, was a high pile of identical cases. They were ready for loading on to the empty railway truck that stood waiting in the bay below the ramp.
Obviously, this was an outgoing cargo and he almost ran down the length of the bay. As he approached he realised that they were traditional teachests, with sturdy plywood sides and solid frames, bound with flexible steel straps.
Then he felt an electric tickle of excitement lift the hair on his arms as he read the address stencilled on the side of the nearest chest: LUCKY DRAGON INVESTMENTS 1555 CHUNGCHING S ROAD TAIPEI TAIWANSon of a gun!
Daniel grinned happily. The Chinese connection!
Lucky Dragon. Lucky for some! He crossed to the fork-lift truck and reached across to the controls. He clicked on the master switch and operated the controls. The electric motor putted and the chest rose silently.
At head-height Daniel stopped it. He slipped beneath the suspended case.
He did not want to leave any trace of his visit by interfering with the lid or sides of the case.
Working between the forked arms of the trunk, he thrust upwards into the bottom of the tea-chest with the screwdriver.
The plywood crackled as he punched out a circular opening just large enough to admit his hand. He found that the interior of the case was lined with a heavy-duty yellow plastic sheet that resisted his efforts to tear through. He paused to find the clasp-knife in his bag, and then slit out a flap of the sheeting.
There was the familiar smell of dried tea leaves, and he began to dig into the compressed black vegetable mass, spilling the tea out on to the concrete floor. Soon he had dug into the full length of the screwdriver without encountering any alien object hidden in the case.
He felt the first prickle of doubt.
There were hundreds of tea-chests piled on the ramp; any of them could contain the tusks, or none of them.
He widened the hole with a few more blows of the screwdriver, then he drove the steel point up into the mass of tea with all the strength of his doubt and frustration.
It hit something solid with a force that jarred his wrist, and he almost shouted aloud with triumph. He ripped at the edges of the hole until he could get both hands into the chest, and he dug out lumps of tea that fell on to the ramp around his feet.
Now at last he could touch the hard object buried in the tea.
It was round and smooth. Crouching under the chest he twisted his neck to look up into the aperture, slitting his eyes against the soft rain of dried tea leaves that trickled from the hole. In the beam of the torch he made out the soft creamy alabaster gleam.
With the point of the screwdriver he attacked the exposed surface of the object, stabbing and prising it, until at last a splinter lifted and he pulled it loose. It was the size of his thumb. No more doubts, he whispered, as he examined the sample and picked out the distinctive chicken-wire pattern of the ivory grain. Now I've got you, you murdering bastards. Quickly he stuffed the torn flap of plastic back into the hole to prevent any more tea spilling out on to the ramp.
Then he swept up the fallen leaves and scooped them into his pockets.
It wasn't a very effectual job of tidying up, but he hoped that the loaders would be careless enough, not to notice anything amiss when they started work again in the morning.
He went to the controls of the fork-lift and lowered the tea chest to its original place on the ramp. He flashed the beam of the torch around to make certain he had left no other evidence of his visit, and this time he saw it clearly.
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