Tidal Rage

by David Evans

  Cutler had come across Philip Cortez on an investigation into American forged bonds three years earlier. He had first met Cortez in Alicante, on the Costa Brava on Spain’s Mediterranean east side. Cortez was an undercover intelligence officer who had penetrated the Basque separatist group who had brought terror to Spain for decades.

  The cell had been working seventy miles to the south of Alicante, in the town of Guardamar. As well as forging American bonds, the cell leader, Alonso, wanted to make a statement. Not a written statement, but one that used Semtex as its ink, and ball bearings as its paper. The explosion some ten miles further down the coast in Torrevieja was a dud.

  Alonso had panicked on seeing a police car patrolling the area. He had left the device on the beach, which was busy with both Spanish and other European tourists. The conditions on the beach were blustery, and the sand had been whipped up to a mini sandstorm. This affected the timing mechanism. The explosion happened on a near-deserted beach some six hours later. The single casualty was a black and white mongrel searching for leftover scraps.

  Cortez had been an undercover agent in the cell but was kept in the dark over the bombing. When he heard it had been a trial run and they were going to use a much bigger device on the bustling beaches of Benidorm, he took immediate action. He placed the timer in the remaining Semtex and put the explosive back in the backpack under the table. He told Alonso and his sidekick that he was going into the town to get a packet of Marlboro cigarettes. Two minutes after leaving the remote property, it disappeared in a cloud of dust and black smoke as the noise of the explosion echoed off the hills surrounding the compound.

  Cortez knew that would kill off the investigation into the bonds, both his and Cutler’s work was for nothing. But he had to do something, and quickly. Cortez was an embarrassment to the Service, while Cutler and his operatives had seen Cortez as a good operator who did what he had to do.

  Cutler engaged the ostracized Cortez and offered him the chance to make some money and do some good. The six-foot-one, dark Spaniard—an Antonio Banderas lookalike—jumped at the opportunity.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Classical Canta Libra was the latest addition to the fleet of the Jules Verne Cruise Line Company. It was at the forefront of technology and innovation. The ship cost $900 million, and within its structure had twenty-eight conventional elevators and six glass elevators, which rose up through the centre of the vessel from the concourse on deck four to the outer leisure area on deck fifteen.

  All internal and ocean-view cabins were several square metres larger than its competitors. Balcony cabins had an eight-foot-square patio, and the mini suites and suites had separate office areas with a desk.

  The fourteen separate bars and music lounges were spread around the ship’s plentiful and lush surroundings, seating, and decor.

  The outdoor swimming pool on deck twelve was half the size of an Olympic swimming pool, and the bright-blue tiles shimmered through the crystal water in the brilliant sunshine. The pool had been fitted with a series of computer-controlled paddles to create a wave pool on the hour, every hour, between 8 am and 7 pm.

  The Classical Canta Libra was hailed as the greatest ship ever launched, and during the ship’s inaugural year, 2009, Sebastian had been invited on its maiden trip to ply his talents.

  The maiden voyage would take it and its passengers from its homeport of Genoa, on the west coast of Italy, and sail south the short distance through the Liguria Sea, into the Tyrrhenian Sea, to its first stop in Cagliari, on the island of Sardinia. After a twelve-hour stopover, the ship would feel the first laps of the waves of the Mediterranean before sailing northeast into the Sea of Marmara to berth at Istanbul. Anchoring in the Aegean for twenty-four hours so the masses of guests could visit the beautiful attractions of the Blue Mosque and Grand Bazaar, among others.

  The following day, the Classical Canta Libra entered the Bosphorus Strait, the Strait that divides the continents of Europe and Asia. The ship sailed under the two bridges spanning the channel. The Faith Sultan Mehmed, at 3,576 feet, was some 50 feet longer than Bogazici Bridge, which was completed in 1973. The captain steered the massive vessel with the help of the Turkish pilot through the strait, bypassing boats, and fishing trawlers the Classical Canta Libra dwarfed, and into the Black Sea.

  The route would take them to Nessebar in Bulgaria, to Odessa and then Yalta, both in the Ukraine, before its final Black Sea stop of Sochi in Russia, then returning back to Genoa with a stop at Kusadasi in Turkey and the Isle of Capri, close to its home and final port of Genoa.

  Sebastian had been allocated the Ice Bar to perform in. The bar was luxurious and sited on the fifth deck aft, a short walk from the theatre with its fifth-floor entrance. The theatre also had entrances directly below on deck four, and above on deck six, as it straddled the three decks.

  The Ice Bar was known as the Martini-Pimm’s bar by the guests, and it served over fifty cocktails. The other additives of the cocktails depended upon how blitzed the guest wanted to get, or how much money they had to waste. The most expensive martini included ten-year-old Morpheus XO Cognac, which retailed on-board for $120 and made the hardiest connoisseurs weep at the cross-contamination of the nectar.

  The stunning, white baby grand piano was situated in the central part of the bar, and slightly elevated by the round marble stage, which was just large enough to sit the grand and a stool for the pianist. Semi-circular leather couches embellished with the Jules Verne Cruise Line logo spread out on all four sides of the stage to form a circle. There were gaps in between the couches for people to circulate. They went back seven rows, and there was a standing area at the bar.

  The bar counter was magnificent; it looked like it had been plucked off a mountain in Alaska. To the naked eye, it was completely made of ice; in reality, only twenty percent was made of ice, but you would never know it. The mirror that adorned the area behind the bar was highly polished ice. The bar staff wore white shorts and jackets with fur collars to complete the style. Sebastian had been told previously to purchase and wear white suits only when playing in the Ice Bar.

  While the guests marvelled at the gildings all around, Sebastian was more interested in other features. Sebastian noticed that there was a new design element to this ship, which far exceeded security arrangements he had seen before on any of the other ships.

  The cause of Sebastian’s concern was the use of internal and external closed-circuit television cameras, or CCTV. The tell-tale signs were the black, bulbous glass protrusions on the ceilings. This type of camera gave 360-degree coverage in all communal areas; in lounges, bars, swimming areas, and in each of the many long passageways to the ship’s cabins. There were cameras placed on the starboard and port sides at intervals to cover the whole sides, as well as to the aft and stern of the ship.

  If Sebastian were to continue in the same vein as previous cruises, he would have to discover the weak spots of the ship. He needed to see what the cameras covered.

  During a meal on the second night on-board, Sebastian positioned himself alongside the third engineer and within the conversation, which brought up the coverage of the cameras. He was somewhat relieved to find out that the only active monitoring was in the casino and other areas such as the main lounges.

  There were just too many cameras for active surveillance; the ship would need an army of CCTV operators to cover them all. Sebastian discovered that half the cameras were carcass cameras only; they were false cameras. This reduced some eighty-four cameras down to forty, of which ten were based in the casino alone. The port and starboard sides of the ship were covered with active cameras, as were the stern and aft.

  The third engineer explained in a hushed manner to Sebastian that, apart from the casino and main reception, the other cameras were for recording purposes only, for evidential use only. The cameras could store recordings for twenty-four hours before being erased or transferred to the central computer in the case of an incident. If there was an altercation or someo
ne jumped from a balcony into the sea, the camera being unmonitored would not assist but would be used to help the following inquiry and would form part of the investigation.

  The trip out to Nessebar in Bulgaria was smooth; more than slight movement on the hull would be counterbalanced by the sea stabilizers. The waves of nearly three feet high would rock any other ship of this size, but not the Classical Canta Libra. You could put a tennis ball on the topmost deck, and it would not roll one inch, such was the computer-controlled environment. Even the sea could be calmed on this Leviathan of a ship.

  Sebastian was joined by two of the female singers from the ship’s on-board entertainment team, Christie, and Pam, both English. Sebastian had met Christie on previous cruise liners, and he nodded to her as the pair sat on the stage perimeter in the Ice Bar.

  “I Believe, please maestro,” Christie said to Sebastian.

  Sebastian began to play the haunting melody I Believe from the musical Miss Saigon, a duet between Molly the American wife and Mella the Vietnamese girlfriend. Christie and Pam sang the parts perfectly.

  “Yes still, I still believe, I know as long as I keep believing, I’ll live, love, and die,” they sang in unison.

  Sebastian thought he liked the idea of them dying better, as he had no concept of what love should feel like; he did not believe.

  The two performers received a standing ovation from the large crowd in the Ice Bar. They, in turn, raised their arms in Sebastian’s direction as he remained sitting at the piano, in recognition of the expertise with which he had played the song. The crowd cheered, and Sebastian rose and gave a slight bow to the audience.

  Christie and Pam went to the bar and waited while Sebastian finished the evening session with a rendition of Sweet Caroline, which allowed the guests to approach the piano and put their dollar bills into the tip glass that sat atop the baby grand.

  After collecting the tips, Sebastian walked across to the two female performers at the bar. They walked over to the Vineyard Café, one deck up from the Ice Bar. The three sat down in a cubicle that was reserved for officers and entertainers for a little privacy. Two lattes and one espresso coffee immediately appeared from the waiter; it was his duty to know what each of the officers’ and entertainers’ favourite drinks was.

  All the male eyes between the ages of four and a hundred and four turned to the two beautiful entertainers. The two gay men admired the dresses and makeup, and the heterosexuals admired the low-cut sequined dresses which displayed smooth, fulsome busts, and the high hems that were scant and gave little coverage of the long, bare, tanned legs that seemed to go on forever.

  Christie turned to Pam. “Can I introduce you to Sebastian, the Grim Reaper?” she said. Both Pam and Sebastian looked bemused.

  “Sorry, are you referring to me?” Sebastian said, somewhat in shock.

  “Don’t take it personally, Piano Man. I have been on three ships you’ve played on, and on each ship, we’ve had passengers die or go missing. You’re jinxed!” Christie explained.

  “Conversely, you have been on three that I have been on, and I have just found out that on those cruises, passengers have died or gone missing,” Sebastian lied. “I think maybe you’re the jinx,” he said.

  Pam giggled at the quick retort.

  “Yes, I suppose what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Christie said.

  Soon after they had finished their coffees and split the gratuities, sixty percent for Sebastian and forty percent between the two singers, Sebastian retreated to his large but single cabin on deck three. He sat down on the daybed to collate his thoughts. While not having the capacity to worry, he did not like loose ends, and Christie had become a loose end. Pam had been there as well, and while it may have seemed to be banter, she had heard them, and could relay the conversation to anyone at a later date.

  Sebastian knew he had been on a killing spree in the last fifteen years and if anything, he was surprised he had not been the butt of speculation before. His mistake was to stay with the cruise company Christie had worked for and to remain for two years. The contract was the longest he had stayed with any one cruise company. Jon Deloitte, the chief executive of the Jules Verne Cruise Line, had signed him to an exclusive contract, with no freelancing for any other company for the two-year period.

  This was a wake-up call, a revelation to Sebastian how sloppy he had become. He thought himself extremely intelligent and forensically aware. He had taken some chances, but, overall, he thought he had covered his tracks as well as anyone could. Staying two years with the one company had put his careful planning at risk, and he had not considered this in his risk analysis.

  Sebastian kicked the chair in front of him and launched into a tirade of self-recrimination and abuse. Once he calmed down and collected his thoughts, he knew some things would have to change; he would not make this mistake again. He liked this ship, but what he was planning meant that he would have to move on after the three-month tour was up. But before handing in his resignation letter, he had loose ends to clear up.

  Several days later, the Classical Canta Libra left Odessa, the principal port in Ukraine, and would soon be anchoring a short tender trip away from Yalta on the Crimean Peninsula.

  Some guests, no matter where they were in the world, would not stray too far from the restaurants and bars on the ship. Many of the guests had taken full advantage of the historic stop in Yalta.

  The tender boats from the port had been transporting the tourists all morning, from the ship to shore, over two thousand souls. Some would go off to 4x4s, discovering the mountainous routes in the area. A significant number of the older guests would visit the Livadia Palace, the venue for the historic Yalta Conference between Russia, America, and Great Britain, the aim to have their photos taken in front of the palace between the white marble lions, not far from the famous picture of Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin.

  Those with no interest in history would board the coaches transporting them to the Swallow’s Nest. The fairy-tale castle perched perilously 130 feet above the Black Sea on a mountain which had cracked during an earthquake and closed the Nest for 40 years. An entrepreneur had poured his roubles into stabilizing the crack and refurbished the Nest into a restaurant. The balcony on three sides of the Nest overhung the sea and gave the impression of being on a cliff edge looking far below into the sea. From the balcony, some mile out to sea, the Classical Canta Libra stood proudly on the still surface of the water.

  All crew members, including the entertainers and officers, would have to attend compulsory evacuation and lifeboat drills. The exercise would include boat practice, taking the boats a thousand feet offshore and circling, with members of the crew acting as guests.

  Sebastian knew that the entertainers that were part of groups or teams would be placed together for the drills. It had been quite simple to get the drill emergency plan and staff allocation list, as it had been published on the sophisticated Intranet the ship used as one of the tools to communicate with staff employees and entertainers.

  Lifeboat four was located with other even-numbered lifeboats on deck six, starboard side. The groups quickly gathered at their allocated lifeboat stations and stood in orderly lines on hearing the alarm sound seconds before.

  The captain had decided to continue with the exercise, even though most of the CCTV for the external areas had stopped working several hours before. The control box with the main fuses for the system had suffered a minor fire, cause unknown, and this would put the system out for repairs for the next sixteen hours.

  Six persons were allocated to each lifeboat, plus the pilot. The lifeboats swung down on their hoists, known as gravity davits, level to the deck. Crew members removed the guardrails, and the allocated participants started to embark onto the lifeboats. Odd-numbered lifeboats on the port side were lowered down first, with even numbers on the starboard side following shortly after.

  The first boats lowered had detached the harnesse
s that attached them to the gravity davits and were pulling away from the ship as the even-numbered boats hit the water on the other side of the ship.

  Lifeboat four, with Christie, Pam, and four other singers and dancers, pulled away swiftly after hitting the water. The smell of the diesel became apparent less than a hundred feet away from the ship. In fact, as soon as the engine had started, the smell became apparent. The pilot was not too worried, as they may have a leak, but diesel was hard to ignite and it would need more than a little spark to ignite the fuel. Murat, the Turkish seaman who was piloting lifeboat four, turned off the engine, following his training to the letter.

  “Diesel leak on number four,” Murat said in English over the radio to the first mate on the bridge of the Classical Canta Libra.

  “Don’t worry, people. We have a slight problem with a fuel leak. Crack open the exit to get rid of the fumes while I investigate the leak,” Murat relayed to the six entertainers.

  Sebastian was on lifeboat one. Typically you could not see that much out of the small portholes, as the Perspex would be scratched by the salt water and become opaque with time. These were brand-new, so he had clear sight of the other lifeboats to the starboard. He could see one had stopped dead in the water and craned his neck to keep sight of the boat as his steered to the port.

  Murat approached the hatch to the engine, which was located on the floor between the seats in the fourth row. The boat rocked in the slight swell without its power. Murat looked confused, and then alarmed. As he pulled up the hatch in the deck, he saw the end of a flare that had been attached to the catch. The active part of the flare dropped into the dark, dank liquid below. The flare at first struggled to ignite, but then the bright green and yellow of the intense heat source ignited.

  “Abandon—” Murat’s screamed order was cut off in mid-sentence.

  The flare acted as the ignition source, the diesel fuel and the oxygen from the boat and the flow from the open door combined to give the three necessary elements for a fire.