Chapter 16

Alang Harbor, India

The hulls of long-dead ships rose from the mudflats like ruins in the distance. On a stiflingly hot afternoon, with the sun gently sinking into a sea of haze and humidity, Kurt and Joe stood on the open-air balcony of a small three-story structure that acted as the offices and control center of Bharat Salvage and Steel, one of more than a hundred companies that owned space on Alang beach, where they broke down and recycled some of the largest ships in the world.

There were other ship-breaking centers around the world, Chittagong in Bangladesh and Gadani in Pakistan, but Alang had been the largest and most active for a long time. Over the last forty years at least ten thousand ships had met their ends here. Supertankers, ocean liners, warships. On any given day nearly two hundred ships sat on the beach, most in the process of being ripped apart by workers with acetylene torches, saws, and hammers.

Bharat Salvage and Steel had eight vessels on its section of the flats, and a stretch of mud open in the middle awaiting a ninth. A large bulk container ship was closest to them. Most of its superstructure was gone, along with large sections of the port-side hull plating, which left a perfect cross-sectional view into the hull itself. Each deck was laid bare for them to see, complete with its structural supports, bulkheads, and fittings.

Next to it was what remained of an aging car carrier. Men with acetylene torches were cutting through the hull plating section by section. As Kurt watched, a section as large as the side of a barn bent away from the hull and snapped off, falling six stories into the wet mud. The man who’d made the final cut was seen scrambling to get out of the way. He swung along the side of the hull on a cable, dodging the five-ton section of steel by no more than a few feet as it went past.

Beyond that ship was an unrecognizable vessel—just fragments, really, like the bones left over after vultures had picked a carcass clean. Its bow stuck up like a sail while its hull was gone and an army of workers, who looked like ants, scored the interior, breaking down its boilers, engines, and anything else that was too heavy to remove in one piece.

A tanker named Khalil sat beside it, and next to that a small coastal freighter with its stern already removed. Finally, Kurt spied the Soufriere sitting in the mud, untouched so far, but with every door and hatch wide open.

Kurt addressed the owner, a man named Virat Sharma. “Very impressive,” he said, adding, “One salvage man to another.”

It was a blatant attempt to make a connection with their host. But considering that most Americans who came to Alang brought cameras to document the harsh and dangerous working conditions, Kurt figured it was important to show the man a different side.

“Thank you,” Sharma replied. “We are the best breakers on the beach. Despite what the reporters say, we conform to the rules of the Hong Kong treaty on large-vessel recycling.”

Treaty or not, the beach was strewn with debris. Hundreds of spent acetylene cylinders, stacks of unusable junk—insulation and electrical wiring and asbestos and fuel oil—all oozing in a toxic mix.

“You do what you have to,” Kurt said. “As do we. And what we’d like to do is make a brief search of one of your ships.”

“And what exactly are you looking for?”

“That’s between us and the owner.”

“All these ships are mine now. That makes me the owner.”

“I meant the owner of the misplaced property,” Kurt clarified.

Sharma nodded and moved around in the office, crossing a thick rug and leaning against a large, industrial metal desk. “And what makes you think I have your ship?”

“Because we tracked it here,” Kurt said calmly. He nodded out the window. “That big tanker. The Khalil .”

Joe heard the name, thought it sounded wrong, but maintained a straight face and said nothing . He was there to play the role of Kurt’s tough-looking enforcer, with sunglasses on, sleeves rolled up to reveal his biceps, and a scowl on his face.

“If you’ll allow us to access the ship,” Kurt continued, “we’ll conduct our search and be on our way.”

Sharma eyed them suspiciously. He appeared even more concerned than before. “What is it you’re looking for?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, either,” Kurt replied. “But my government is very interested in recovering it.”

“Are they?” Sharma said. “And yet I haven’t received any type of official request that I know of.”

“You’ll get one eventually,” Kurt promised. “But, one salvage man to another, it would be better for me if I find these items before the politicians get involved. And if you’re willing to help, I’ll make sure it’s better for you as well.”

“Ah,” Sharma said. He was smiling now, with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “So there’s a reward.”

“Nothing official,” Kurt said. “But the money will find its way to you.”

Sharma leaned on the desk, pursing his lips, remaining silent while appearing to calculate the possibilities. Finally, he reached under the lip and pressed a hidden button. A few seconds later the office door opened and a pair of hulking men came in. Each of them appeared capable of tearing a ship apart by hand.

“These are my bodyguards,” Sharma said, unprovoked. “Though occasionally they do other things. Today, they will guide you out of the yard and back to your hotel. There will be no search.”

“You’re kicking us out?”

“Escorting you,” Sharma insisted. “Alang is a dangerous place, especially for foreigners. My guards will ensure that you don’t have any accidents along the way.”

A sigh from Joe suggested he was both disappointed in the turn of events and also uninterested in fighting the two giants…just in case that was what Kurt had in mind.

Kurt’s reaction was even more muted. He offered a slight frown, then produced a business card. He handed it to Sharma. “In case you change your mind.”

Sharma took the card, but didn’t bother to look at it. He nodded toward the door and his guards stepped out of the way, allowing Kurt and Joe to pass through it.

Despite the promise of an escort back to their hotel, the two brutes took them only as far as the entrance to the harbor, hustling them out through a two-layered gate reminiscent of the exit from a prison or detention camp.

On the far side, a number of three-wheeled, rickshaw-style taxis were waiting. Sometimes called tuk-tuks, they were half motorcycle and half golf cart. The driver sat in front, straddling a motorcycle seat and controlling the machine the way one controlled a motorbike. Larger versions of the machines using Harley-Davidson parts were called phat-phats.

The passengers, four in most cases but up to six, sat in the back on padded seats. There were no seat belts, only a framework made of metal posts that held up brightly colored tarps, often covered with Hindu symbols and/or brightly colored, dangling decorations that swayed with every shake and turn.

The primitive and versatile machines were ever present around the harbor, waiting to shuttle workers, supplies, and equipment in all directions.

At the slightest whistle, the lead tuk-tuk driver started his cart and pulled up to where Kurt and Joe stood. They climbed dutifully into the back and then held on tight as the young driver squeezed the clutch, revved the throttle, and jammed the motor into gear.

The machine took off with a surprising amount of acceleration, and they were soon humming along a narrow and crowded road heading north. Kurt shouted the name of their hotel to the driver, who offered only a thumbs-up while remaining focused on the dangerous job of navigating the pothole-filled road and the chaotic ever-merging and -diverging traffic.

In the back of the tuk-tuk, Kurt and Joe held on, buffeted by the swirling air, while their ears were assaulted by the buzz of the unmuffled motor.

“So that worked,” Joe said.

“It was worth a shot,” Kurt replied, seeming unperturbed by their failure and unceremonious escort off the property.

“I thought you had him when you offered a reward,” Joe said. “But all it did was tip the scales in the wrong direction. I could almost hear the gears turning in Sharma’s head.”

Kurt admitted to the failure. “I guess he decided he could net a higher return if he found what we were after and negotiate for himself.”

“Which makes me wonder why you seem so happy. Care to let me in on the secret?”

Kurt turned directly toward Joe. Instead of answering, he posed a question. “What would your next move be if you were Sharma?”

Joe thought for a second and then replied, “I’d get all my people onto the ship and scour it for anything my suspicious-looking American visitors might want. Equipment, documents, computers. And I’d do it fast, before our government starts putting pressure on his government, forcing him to let us take a look.”

“Exactly.” Kurt nodded.

“And how does that help us?”

“Because they’ll be looking on the wrong ship.”

Kurt’s statement had flown by so quickly that Joe hadn’t even raised an eyebrow. “You told him we wanted to search the Khalil .”

“Which is where Sharma and his men will be while we sneak aboard the Soufriere after dark.”

Joe grinned. “Smooth. But how exactly do you intend to get back in there? The place is surrounded by fences, razor wire, and cameras. And they work twenty-four seven around here. No matter how late we go in, there’s still going to be thousands of people around and plenty of goons.”

Kurt gripped the awning’s support post and held on as they rounded another turn and the tuk-tuk threatened to tip over. Kurt had a solution to that, but he had a feeling Joe wasn’t going to like it.