Extreme Measures (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 20)

his head. “We wish we knew, but that’s not exactly a prominent shipper at the docks. They are a small operation in comparison to most of the companies using this port.”
“So, who’s running the show?” Hawk asked.
“That’s also a mystery,” Chubb said. “Dimitri Lagana is listed as the acting agent, but his paperwork hasn’t been filed for years with the port authority.”
“And they’re still doing business?” Alex asked, her eyebrows arching upward. “Five minutes late at most U.S. ports and you’d have your privileges revoked.”
“Well, welcome to Greece, where the rules apply to some of the people some of the time,” Chubb said. “How and when their penalties are assessed for failing to abide by the regulations are as much of a mystery as who erected Stonehenge or how the pyramids were built.”
“Isn’t that much different than some places in the U.S.,” Hawk said.
Chubb nodded. “A greased palm generally gets the same result no matter who is running the docks.”
“So, what do we know?” Alex asked.
“We know about as much as their outdated website tells us,” Chubb said. “They ship special commodities all over the world and broker transportation deals for prospective clients when Nicolo doesn’t provide the desired service.”
“Such as?” Hawk asked.
“You need something hauled across a continent on a flatbed, they can get that done for you in certain countries or find someone who will if they can’t,” Chubb said.
“Even in the U.S.?” Alex asked.
“That’s one country they list as having full services, though I haven’t been able to locate what U.S. ports they ship in and out of.”
“So, what’s our move?” Hawk asked.
Chubb dug his hand into an envelope and fished out a pair of press credentials. “Your best way in without drawing too much attention is to go in as journalists.”
“Journalists?” Hawk asked. “Do I look like a journalist?”
Chubb laughed. “No, you look like the cameraman."
Alex chuckled and playfully punched Hawk in the arm. “My big chance to get in front of the camera.”
“Of course, this won’t be aired anywhere, but I’ve worked up some notes for a proposed story,” Chubb said as he handed them a tip sheet.
Hawk scanned the first few paragraphs. “A story on how climate change affects the shipping industry? Perfect."
“I thought so too,” Chubb said. “It’s benign enough in nature that nobody will suspect you’re spies.”
“Our own Argo,” Alex said as a grin spread across her face.
“Not exactly,” Chubb said. “But it’ll get you access to the docks, which is about the best I can do at this point.”
“That’s good enough,” Hawk said. “We’ll take it from here.”
* * *
HAWK HOISTED THE CAMERA onto his shoulder and followed Alex toward Nicolo’s offices. Upon entering, they found a sparse reception area occupied by a woman in her twenties peering over the top of her glasses at her computer screen. She ignored them, engrossed in her task.
“Excuse me,” Alex said.
The woman didn’t break her concentration, her gaze still affixed on her monitor.
After a few more seconds, Alex persisted. “Pardon me, but I was wondering if I could speak to someone here for a story I’m working on?”
Finally, the woman stopped and turned toward Alex and Hawk. “A story?”
“Yes, I’m Nancy Garland with BBC America, and I’m working on a piece on the effects climate change is having on the shipping industry,” Alex said.
The woman shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. There’s still water in the ocean, and our ships can float on it.”
“We’re digging a little deeper than that,” Alex said. “Is there someone else in the company here who might be able to spare a few minutes for an interview?”
The woman shrugged. “I doubt anyone here could tell you something more than what I just said. We’re extremely busy and focused on our jobs. We don’t have time to answer questions like that."
“Perhaps the owner of the company would be willing to answer a few questions?”
The woman scowled. “Mr. Lagana? I’ve been working here two years and have never seen him. So, you won’t find him here.”
Alex leaned forward on the counter. “Do you happen to know where I can find him?”
“Maybe on a yacht somewhere or on holiday in the tropics,” the receptionist said, turning her attention back to her screen.
“Do you have a phone number where I can reach him?”
“I’m not authorized to divulge any personal information about any employee. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
“Of course,” Alex said. “But before I go, do you have a restroom I can use?”
“All the way down the hall, last door on the left,” the woman said without looking up for her computer.
Alex glanced at Hawk. “Keep her busy,” she mouthed.
Hawk stepped forward and leaned over the counter, peering at her screen. “So, what kind of things does Nicolo ship?”
The woman shrugged. “No idea, nor do I care. I just handle scheduling.”
“And you’re the receptionist?”
“It’s not a difficult job. We rarely have anyone walk in like you just did. Most of our business is done over the phone and the internet.”
“Are people generally happy who work here?”
The woman’s cheeks puffed out as she let out a long breath. “You know, if you’re so interested in me and this company, maybe you can buy me a drink after work. But until then, I’ve got things to do.”
“Fair enough,” Hawk said, pausing for a beat. “What time do you get off work?”
“I’ll be working late tonight,” she said, still hammering away on her keyboard.
After an extended period of awkward silence, Hawk pulled out his camera. “Would you mind if I just got some B roll of you typing at your desk?”
She stopped and glanced at him. “Some what?” she asked with a scowl.
“B roll—you know, just background visuals while the reporter is talking about the story.”
“I’d rather not if you don’t mind. Now, please have a seat over there and leave me alone.”
Hawk shuffled across the room and took a seat. He checked his watch several times, wondering if Alex was ever going to come back. Another couple