[Ethan's POV]
The Black Sea Anchor was exactly the kind of tavern where men went to disappear.
It sat on the edge of the commercial docks, a low, concrete bunker of a building that smelled of spilled vodka, cheap tobacco, and unwashed bodies. The music thumping from the jukebox was a heavy, aggressive Russian bass track that rattled the floorboards.
I sat at a sticky wooden table in the corner, my flat cap pulled low over my eyes. Claire sat across from me, her face buried in the collar of her oversized parka. We had been nursing the same two glasses of warm beer for an hour, just watching and listening.
"The Panamanian freighters," Claire murmured, leaning forward so only I could hear her. "I checked the public port registry at an internet cafe down the street before we came in. Two of the three ships Jake noted in his journal are currently docked at Pier 14. They're registered as carrying agricultural machinery."
