Page 80 of Player

I get busy skimming the screen for information on a cargo ship out of Acapulco. Thinking this was easier than expected.

Years ago, I learned when things seem too easy or too good to be true, they usually are.

The dates and ships in Cork Port scroll across the screen. Once. Twice. Until it’s clear that cargo ship is missing.

“Judging by that face, yer not liking what yer seeing. But I’ll have ye know this is the most accurate system in the European Union. Says so right on the wall.”

A plaque does indeed hang on the wall to the right.

The nagging question rolls around in my mind but I’m hesitant to ask it. After all, what would a Yankee graduate student know about the Irish mob?

“The amount of ships coming and going is impressive.” I bite my lip. “Especially in a port that’s low key and environmentally conscious. But, still, it’s a port and, like in other ports, there must be ... crime?” I allow the last word to dangle.

Joseph snorts. “Even the mob knows to avoid us, being half the residents work for the guards. Government offered them special housing as an enticement to live here. Part of the big picture when developing this place.”

“Seems they thought of everything.”

“That they did. Shame Kinsale didn’t fare as well.”

My ears perk up. Kinsale is a beautiful, quaint town to the west of Cork. It’s also on the water.

“Like New York, we’ve our share of problems. I’ll show you something, but you can’t include it in yer report.” He steps beside me and clicks the computer mouse. Additional data immediately filters into the information on the screen. “Those crooks aren’t as clever as they think. Updated their computer systems, Kinsale did. Our systems and data are linked.” He points to the screen. “See here? A cargo ship scheduled for Cork docked in Kinsale a few days shy of a week ago. Suspicious in itself, but the lack of information in the system has O’Brien and his crew written all over it.”

“O’Brien?” I murmur, trying to calm my excitement.

“Biggest feckin’ wanker this side of Armagh. Up to no good again. Wonder what he’s got himself into this time around.”

Uranium, I think.Trading explosive materials.

“The garda won’t step in?”

“They like to line up all the eggs before shooing the hens out of the hen house. Less violent. Less bloodshed that way. Now if it were hard drugs the mob were pushing, that’d be a different story.”

If you only knew the truth.

I stare at the screen. Hard proof the uranium is in Ireland and in O’Brien’s possession stares back at me. But where is the shipment now?

“What did you say yer field of study was?” he asks, catching me by surprise. But he answers before I do. “You should pursue journalism. Then you could expose the corrupt and honor the deserving.”

I’m at a loss of words. How does he know? How can a complete stranger see deep inside my heart within a matter of minutes? Clever man, I think. Because exposing the corrupt and honoring the deserving is exactly my mission.

“The mob won’t have an easy time of it, bringing cargo into Kinsale. Rain has ruined the larger roadways leading in and out of the place. Large lorries can’t move heavier goods out of the port until the roads dry.”

My eyebrows lift. “You think they’ll wait out the weather?”

“Know it for a fact. This isn’t the first time they’ve used Kinsale to move illegal goods. The cargo will sit inside a rinky-dink storage facility near the port while the rain keeps up. At night, when the weather is poor, the mob likes to filter into Cork City for the fights. Aside from me arthritis, it’s the other reason I dislike the rain.”

My pulse quickens as the puzzle pieces fit into place. The uranium, for now, sits inside a warehouse while the roads dry.

“You know a story when you hear one, eh? Yes, you would make a fine journalist. Think about it.”

“I will. Promise.” I smile.

He winks. “Enough about those hooligans. Let me give you the tour.” He proceeds to show me how efficiently the port is run and how clean the water remains despite the industrialization. And although I’m anxious to move onto my next location, I allow myself time to appreciate what they’ve done here. One day, when my career takes off, I’ll cover this port and honor the deserving. I might even reconnect with Joseph to share how I took his advice.

Several pictures and a few hastily typed notes later, and I’m in a cab heading to Kinsale.

I ask the cab to wait in the parking lot in front of the port’s small office building. But instead of entering, I steal around the building and head toward what can only be the rinky-dink storage houses. The driveway dividing the buildings is quiet and, from what I can tell, void of security. It’s not until I reach the end that I spy the security cameras. Positioned on those last storage houses.

Bingo.

It’s raining yet it feels like a spotlight of sunshine has fallen across those buildings. Highlighting what’s hidden inside—the uranium.

I take out my phone, and, careful to stay out of the security camera range, begin to record.

“Hidden within the aluminum-sided storage warehouses located in the quaint, picturesque village of Kinsale ...”