Rising Phoenix by Kyle Mills Page A

announced, parking the truck next to a group of wooden crates with large red lettering on all sides. Docked at the end of the pier was a smallish gray-and-white freighter. Rust began at the decks and sprayed out over the sides as though someone had dumped brown paint from the edge.
    “Please wait here, I’ll be back in a moment,” Orloski said, sliding out of the cab and hurrying across the dock to a small knot of men huddled near the ship. He disappeared into the middle of the group. About five minutes later, he reemerged with one of the men in tow and hurried back to the car.
    His companion was enormous—well over six feet tall, with heavily tattooed forearms that looked as thick as telephone poles.
    Hobart jumped out of the cab, relieved to nearly be done with this phase of the operation.
    “John, I’d like you to meet Mikhail. He is the man I told you about.”
    Hobart offered his hand, but Mikhail just stared down at him. It appeared that he was waiting for Hobart to speak.
    “It’s nice to meet you, Mikhail. I understand that you can help expedite my shipment’s arrival in the U.S.” Orloski translated as he spoke. Mikhail listened intently and replied in Polish.
    “Mikhail would like to know where you would like your shipment delivered.”
    “Norfolk, Virginia.”
    This needed no translation. The man nodded slowly and spoke directly to Orloski.
    “He says that there is quite a bit of Naval activity in that area, making his job more difficult. It will cost you another five thousand dollars.” Orloski looked apologetic.
    Hobart knew that he was being played. Aircraft carriers were not in the business of stopping freighters to look for illegal produce shipments. If there was any additional expense, it was the result of his translator taking a healthy cut of the proceeds.
    He was not inclined to generate any ill will by haggling over insignificant amounts of money. It was critical that the product reach the U.S. More important, Hobart wanted Orloski happy. The FBI would undoubtedly be speaking with him in the coming months, and the happier he was now, the more forgetful he might be then.
    “That seems fair, Lech, but there is something I need to know,” Hobart said in a serious tone.
    “What’s that?”
    “Your friend here is reliable, right? You know how important my research is.”
    Orloski looked insulted. “Of course he is! I personally guarantee their safe arrival.”
    Hobart considered himself a good judge of character—a near prodigy, in fact. Orloski would skim as much as he could, but he would deliver. In fact, if he had it to do over again, he would have never made a physical appearance in Poland.
    The shipping arrangements had been a difficult decision. Hobart had originally considered taking the mushrooms into the U.S. legally. In the end, though, he had decided that the added scrutiny was a risk he’d rather not take. His passport was good, but he wasn’tanxious to subject himself to any undue attention from customs or any other government agency. While smuggling carried its own risks, they weren’t resting on his shoulders.
    “When can I expect my crates to arrive in Norfolk?”
    As Lech translated, Mikhail produced a full-sized clipboard from behind his back. His brow creased with concentration as he silently ran a finger down the grease-streaked papers.
    “December fifth,” Orloski translated.
    “Fine. I have traveler’s checks amounting to three thousand dollars with me. I’ll give him the other two upon delivery.” Lech looked doubtful, but translated as Hobart spoke.
    Mikhail shook his head furiously. He and Orloski argued for almost five minutes in Polish. Mikhail seemed to be winning.
    “Lech,” Hobart broke in. “Tell him that he gets an additional three thousand if they’re on time.”
    Orloski smiled and started in on their heated conversation again, every once in a while shooting a glance in Hobart’s direction. Finally the debate ended and Mikhail yelled