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An excerpt from Unprepared.

Early Spring 1999

A Turkish cargo ship, the Üstünlük, slowly inched into the Port of New Orleans. The seas had been unusually rough during its passage. Sanjar Masoumpour paced nervously as he waited in the hopes that his crate was not among the cargo that, he had been told, had been damaged during the trip. If it was, there would be a long investigation by the insurance carriers, and Sanjar knew his contacts would want to avoid any such delay at all costs. His orders were to destroy the manifest, and then silently disappear, should anything go wrong.

As he waited to take final control of the cargo, Sanjar overheard a conversation between Ralph Johnston, the Harbormaster and Mahmoud Haddad, one of the port dispatchers who also happened to be a Hezbollah operative.

Making an iquiry, Mahmoud said, “I hear there were rough seas.”

“Yeah. A lot of cargo on board that ship took on water. I feel sorry for the poor bastards that have to deal with that problem. Looks to me like your freight happened to be on the part of the ship that was spared the worst of it,” Ralph said handing a stack of papers to Mahmoud.

“I will still have my clients inspect their loads for any signs of water damage. If they don’t, we will be relieved of any further responsibility,” Mahmoud answered, knowing Sanjar, for one, would not be interested in an insurance investigation.

With a questioning glance, Ralph looked up at the word Üstünlük painted in bold white letters on the side of the huge vessel, its blue paint faded from years in the sea’s harsh environment.

“It means ‘Excellence,’” Mahmoud said, reading Ralph’s thoughts.

“For you, maybe it does. To me, it means a royal pain in my ass. Looks like I’m gonna be here all night trying to sort this mess out,” Ralph responded, shaking his head.

The soggy, well-chewed, end of a burned out cigar hung out of Ralph’s mouth. He removed his worn New Orleans Saints ball cap and scratched the greasy, scraggly, strands of hair on the top of his balding head. Ralph scrutinized the signature on the paperwork, looked at Mahmoud, and then looked down at the manifest again. Had he been paying attention to Mahmoud’s body language, Ralph would have noticed a slight tensing of the muscles and a moment of apprehension as it crossed Mahmoud’s face. But times were good, and Ralph had no reason to question anyone employed on his dock. Besides, he had a ton of work awaiting his immediate attention, and this was one less aggravation to deal with.

Ralph turned to Mahmoud, and handed him another stack of copies. Tapping the top sheet, he said, “Scientific equipment, it says there. Better hope the damn thing didn’t get wet.”

Feeling a moment of unease, Sanjar calmly watched as Mahmoud took the papers, and said, “Yes, that is a fact.”

“Well, she’s all yours, pal. Have a good day,” Ralph said. He then turned his attention to the hustle of activities further down the dock and went in the direction of an unhappy client.

Finally, after a lengthy and uncomfortable wait, Sanjar watched as his sea van was hoisted by a large crane and lowered onto a waiting semi. He would drive to a nondescript warehouse many miles from the port. There, it would be unloaded away from the watchful eye of the port authority.

Mahmoud handed Sanjar a copy of the documents. The men’s eyes locked for the briefest of moments as they exchanged a knowing look. With a quick handshake, Sanjar climbed into the cab of the eighteen wheeler tractor trailer rig, and drove the long road to an ordinary warehouse located in the small town of Lamar, Arkansas. He didn’t have any time to waste as he had important work at hand and, due to the late arrival of the ship, very little time in which to do it.

Copyright © 2006 by Debbie Ramsey & DayDreamer Books LLC

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