Robinson called the station and found out that three cargo ships were unloading. Some of the warehouses were open, and apparently the unions had managed to get triple overtime. Robinson drove to a narrow strip of land abandoned to junkies and cormorants. From there he turned left and parked in front of two dark buildings, undoubtedly built at the end of the nineteenth century. Marcas was the first one out of the black Lincoln, followed by Joan and Robinson. Joan seemed tense. Marcas assumed she wasn’t used to this kind of adventure. Robinson pulled out a lock-picking set, and in less than a minute he pushed the door of the first building open. The odor of mold struck them as they entered the dark space. Robinson swept the room with a flashlight. Old desks and chairs were scattered here and there, and yellowing posters hung on the walls. “Well, this is a surprise,” Robinson said. “These places are usually filled with drug addicts and squatters.
