Back at the padlocked gate, he thought about Mama Tusani’s words. She was the first person in a long time who actually wanted him to do his job. Everyone else wished he and his investigations would just go away. Even those who had no stake in whatever swindle he was digging up feared that his reports would cast them in a bad light and upset the routines they had grown to like. Everybody had an interest in keeping the status quo.
He examined the padlock again. It was solid. The fence posts didn’t move when he pushed against them. The latch was fastened to the post with large screws. He tugged on it. It didn’t budge. A metal rod might be strong enough to force the latch open. He thought of a tire iron and turned toward the Citroën.
The driver tried to be helpful, but the trunk was empty, no spare tire and definitely no tire iron.
Vermeulen rifled through the contents of his pants pockets and found his penlight, his lighter, and his pocketknife. The small blade doubled as an emergency screwdriver.
He tried the first screw. It was fastened tightly. He twisted the knife with both hands. The handle dug into his palm. The screw budged a half a turn. He stopped and repositioned the knife. After five minutes, he had removed the first screw. Sweat streamed down his forehead.
The driver observed him for a while but then must have decided that breaking and entering were not his cup of tea. He and the car disappeared.
By the time there were two screws remaining, the knife had scraped his right palm raw. In anger, he kicked the gate. It creaked, and the latch rattled. He aimed carefully and put all the force he could muster into the next kick. The gate sprung open with the sound of screws being wrenched from wood.
The inside of the tent was dark. By the narrow beam of his penlight he made out five pallets in the rear. The refrigerated units stood closer to the front, their compressors humming. A tangle of power cords connected them to the outlets mounted on a pole to the left of the entrance.
The extra refrigerated container — he remembered the code number — sat closest to the entrance. Its door was still sealed with a plastic cable tie. Without hesitation, he cut the tie and opened the door.
A wave of putrid stench enveloped him immediately. The beer in his stomach gurgled uneasily, sending a wave of nausea upward. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose. His penlight revealed the source of the reek. The bags of once frozen food had swollen to resemble grotesque pillows. Many had burst. Mold blooms as large as pizzas covered the interior of the container.
It all fit together. This container was extra, and last week one had been missing. The plane had stopped somewhere, dropped off the container, and then picked it up a week later. Without electricity, the food’d be rotten, all right — a perfect cover for smuggling weapons.
The sound of a truck arriving stopped him. Doors slammed. Angry voices. They had discovered the open gate. He stuck the penlight in his pocket and slipped toward the rear of the tent.
Not a moment too soon. The door of the tent opened and the bright beams of flashlights danced across the tent fabric. He ducked behind a pallet.
“Hijo de puta,” somebody swore.
“Fuck! Somebody opened the container!” Vermeulen recognized the pilot’s voice. “Raúl, check if anyone is still here. The rest of you, get the guns out now. We gotta move fast.”
A flashlight lit up the rear of the tent. Raúl came closer. Vermeulen’s mind ran through his options. There were none. These men had guns; he had a little knife. No contest.
Raúl stopped on the other side of the pallet. His flashlight bounced across the dark reaches of the tent. Raúl stepped to the left. Vermeulen crawled to the right, keeping the pallet between them.
He was now in plain view of the men at the entrance, but they were busy tossing the rotten food on the ground.
Raúl walked toward the last pallet.
“¡Nadie!” he shouted to the front.
Vermeulen felt exposed. He crawled to the pallet on the left and knelt in the dark space between it and the side of the tent. The beam of Raúl’s flashlight swung around. The beam stopped, lighting the space he had just left. Vermeulen’s heart skipped. There, glinting in the beam, lay his penlight. It must have dropped from his pocket.
“¡Mira!” Raúl shouted and held the penlight in the beam of his torch. Vermeulen crawled behind the pallet Raúl had just left.
The men in front had started stacking the guns in a pile. They were in a hurry.
Another voice told Raúl to hurry up, they didn’t have all night.
Raúl shrugged, pocketed the penlight, and joined the men up front.
Time was running out. Vermeulen had to stop them before his evidence disappeared. He knelt down and cut a long slit into the tent fabric. His escape prepared, he took his lighter and lit the plastic netting around the nearest pallet. The flame licked up quickly. The other pallets caught fire just as fast. He crawled out of the tent and held his lighter to the tent fabric. The nylon fabric burst into flames.