Chapter 23 Sophie
SOPHIE
A day and a half later, Sophie and Waxman, with Feirn seated cross-legged on the floor, tuned in via remote camera to watch the raid on the Moku Pahu. Button cams mounted on Janet Chen’s and Marcella Scott’s ballistic vests provided a grainy live action feed.
The FBI conference room smelled of burnt coffee and the alcohol cleaner someone had used on the whiteboards.
Sophie sat forward in her chair, eyes fixed on the wall of monitors showing live feeds from button cameras.
Her reflection ghosted across the screens—a pale shadow against the bright displays.
They’d timed the rendezvous in the conference room for when the coast guard cutter was nearing the huge cargo ship, and it happened to be past sunset.
“Thank you for inviting us to follow the action,” Sophie told Waxman.
“You deserve to be here, and I know you’d rather be on board with Chen and Scott than sitting in this conference room,” Waxman said, his eyes on the screen as he typed.
Sophie stayed silent; that wasn’t strictly true. She didn’t have a strong stomach for boats, and it had been nice to be able to spend a day at home while the raid got organized; even now her hands smelled like the baby shampoo she’d used on Sean’s hair just before she left for the FBI building.
A crackle of static.
“Coast Guard Cutter Kimball to FBI One, we have visual on target vessel,” the speakers spat. “Moku Pahu bearing two-seven-zero, range three thousand meters.”
SAC Waxman stood up and paced back and forth at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight. The room’s fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his silver hair and the planes of his face. “Chen, Scott, status report.”
On the center screen, Chen’s camera showed the view from the Kimball’s deck—black ocean stretching and heaving, broken only by the cargo ship’s lights piercing the darkness like a small city. The image lurched and swayed with the cutter’s movement. Sophie’s stomach rolled in sympathy.
“In position,” Chen’s voice came through the speakers, breathless. “Boarding team ready.”
Marcella’s feed appeared on the adjacent monitor. Her camera angle showed Coast Guardsmen in tactical gear checking weapons, their faces green-tinged from night vision. The wind whipped past her microphone, creating bursts of static.
“Signaling now,” the Coast Guard commander announced.
Sophie watched as spotlights blazed to life, illuminating the Moku Pahu’s rust-streaked hull. The cargo ship seemed to freeze for a moment, but maybe that was the connection, as the plunging movement resumed.
Sophie dug her fingers into the conference table‘s edge, grounding herself.
“They’re responding,” Chen reported. “Reducing speed, turning on deck lights.”
On screen, the two vessels drew closer. Sophie could hear the engines' throb through the agents’ microphones, feel the vibration in her chest. The Kimball’s crew shot lines across the gap, securing the ships together with practiced efficiency.
“Boarding ladder secure,” someone called out.
Chen’s camera tilted up, showing the ladder stretching up the Moku Pahu’s side; twenty feet of swaying metal over black water.
Sophie’s palms grew damp.
“FBI! We’re coming aboard!” Marcella shouted over the wind into a bullhorn. “Put your hands up and visible!”
“Copy that,” came through an amplifier. “We are unarmed and prepared for boarding.”
The camera lurched as Chen began climbing after fastening a sliding safety harness to one side of the ladder.
Sophie caught glimpses of gloved hands gripping rungs, boots finding purchase on metal.
Below, the ocean churned white between the ships’ hulls.
One slip, one missed grip . . . yes, Chen would be safe, but the fall sure wouldn’t be pleasant.
“Halfway up,” Chen panted.
Marcella’s feed showed her following, the ladder bowing under the women’s combined weight. Sophie could almost taste the salt spray, feel the wind trying to peel them off the ship’s side.
“Contact on deck,” a new voice reported. “Crew members visible, hands raised.”
Chen hauled herself over the rail, camera swinging wildly before stabilizing on a group of casually dressed multiethnic sailors, their hands high, eyes wide in the spotlights’ glare. The deck beneath her feet shone with spray and the rainbow glare of grease.
Moments later, Marcella joined Chen, followed by the cadre of armed Coast Guardsmen. Marcella stepped forward, holding an official document in a plastic cover. “This is a joint venture by the FBI and Coast Guard. We have a warrant to search this vessel.”
The captain, a weathered man in stained khakis and a yellow slicker, stepped forward. “We cooperate, yes? All legal here. Agricultural equipment for American Samoa.” His speech was accented.
Sophie leaned closer to the monitors. The captain’s body language seemed genuine—confused, worried about his job, but not guilty. He took the warrant, turning on a flashlight, and scanned it.
“Where are the containers?” Marcella’s voice cut through the wind and static.
“This way, please.” The captain gestured toward a massive hatch. “Everything is on the manifest and it’s in the hold.”
The Coast Guard men preceded the FBI agents, following the captain down steep steel stairs. The cameras, moving up and down with the women’s strides, descended into the ship’s belly as the agents followed.
Sophie’s nose filled with phantom smells—rust, diesel, stale air recycling through inadequate ventilation. The LED work lights mounted in the ceiling carved harsh circles in the darkness, revealing container after container stacked like giant building blocks.
“Looking for container MSKU-7892341,” Chen read from her phone. “Should be third tier, port side, according to the manifest.”
They moved deeper into the maze. Sophie’s chest tightened with each turn. So many hiding places. So many ways to lose something or someone in this metal labyrinth.
“There,” Marcella’s camera focused on a blue container, partially hidden behind legitimate cargo. “That’s our target.”
“Crane operator!” Chen called. “We need this container on deck, now!”
Sophie got up and fetched a fresh cup of coffee for Waxman, and hot water for tea as they waited. She handed water and a teabag to Feirn, then dunked her teabag up and down.
The crane’s mechanical groan filled the conference room speakers as the crew got it activated. Waxman hadn’t moved, his attention laser-focused on the screens—though he sipped the black coffee Sophie had brought as if on autopilot.
Eventually, the container settled on deck with a resonant clang. Chen and Marcella approached as one of the sailors produced bolt cutters.
“A heavy lock,” Chen observed. “Not standard shipping security.”
The lock snapped as the sailor applied brute force to the long handles. Sophie held her breath as the Coast Guard men swung the doors open, and moveable work lights flooded the interior.
“Holy sh—” Marcella caught herself. “Sir, we have visual confirmation. The artifacts are here.”
Sophie’s heart leaped with excitement as the cameras revealed the interior—custom foam cradles, archival packing, each piece carefully stacked, pristine and accounted for. The feather cape’s red and yellow plumage seemed to glow even through the grainy feed.
“Every piece from Thornfield’s compound,” Chen confirmed, checking her inventory as the men moved the items to be counted.
Marcella turned back to the captain. “Do you have any passengers?”
“No.”
She nodded to the Coast Guardsmen who’d accompanied them. “Verify this, please.”
The search of the ship for hidden passengers or guardians of the artifacts took another hour. Finally Chen confirmed. “No extra personnel or passengers. Container’s empty except for the artifacts.”
“Check again,” Waxman ordered. “Look for hidden compartments, false walls.”
They searched for another hour, obtaining blueprints of the ship layout and comparing them to what they faced. The Coast Guardsmen took the lead; they did this work often, using fiber optic scopes to probe for potential voids.
“Sir,” Chen’s voice carried disappointment. “No suspects. The crew checks out—all legitimate employees. No one matching our suspect photos.”
Sophie slumped back. They’d recovered the artifacts but missed the real prize—actual Brotherhood members.
“Begin transfer of the relics to the Kimball,” Waxman ordered. “Carefully.”
The next hour passed in tense concentration. Sophie watched as each artifact was photographed, catalogued, and placed in a transfer chute to the Coast Guard cutter. Chen’s camera showed her cradling a boxed lei niho palaoa like a newborn. The whale tooth hook was ancient and irreplaceable.
“Seas are picking up,” the Coast Guard commander warned. “We need to expedite.”
A swell lifted the ships, the gap between them yawning wider before the lines snapped taut. Marcella’s camera showed a crate teetering at the chute’s edge.
“Hold it!” she shouted, lunging forward.
Sophie’s fingernails bit into her palms as Marcella’s camera went wild—sky, deck, ocean, then stability as she steadied the crate. “Secured. That was close.”
Finally, the last piece was transferred. The cameras showed agents and Coast Guard personnel exhausted but victorious, the artifacts safe in the Kimball’s hold.
“Outstanding work,” Waxman said, the first emotion he’d shown all night. “Bring them home.”
As the ships separated and the monitors went dark, Sophie fell back against her seat in the sudden quiet. Waxman’s coffee had gone cold, her tea was forgotten.
“They sent the artifacts off without an escort,” she said. “Put the container on an unguarded ship, probably paid the shipping company through shell corporations.”
Waxman’s jaw worked. “But we got the artifacts. That’s what matters.”
“We wanted the thieves, too.”
“Of course. But sometimes you have to make the best of what you can get.” Waxman stood up. “Let’s call it a day.” He headed for the door. Feirn followed, gesturing that he was going to the restroom.