by L. J. Martin
“The devil you say,” Alistair says.
“And French, a smattering of Breton, and passable Farsi. I can understand a bit of Mandarin but couldn’t find the loo on a bet.”
We men all laugh, then she continues. “These two were blathering on, continually glancing over their shoulders as if concerned about being overheard, and said something, in very low voices about meeting up with a freighter. Why the devil…”
“That’s bloody strange,” Alistair says.
“I don’t like it,” I say, then add, “how about we all pay a little extra attention. I’d hate to play Achille Lauro. That would screw up a nice trip.” I turn back to Connie. “Do you remember exactly what they said?”
“All I got was ‘when we meet with the freighter.’ Then I heard a name, Amir Al-Karim, I think.”
I nod. “Suggest you run that by some of your old chums.”
“Old chums?” Bull asks.
“Connie was fifteen years with the Company—CIA.”
Alistair offers, “And I have a mate with MI5. Should I…”
“Better safe than sorry,” Bull says, then laughs. “What the hell do we pay taxes for?”
“Let’s meet in The Restaurant for breakfast,” Bull suggests. “Say 0900?”
“I can,” I say, “presuming my client is not yet up.”
Bull nods, then cautions us. “Let’s keep this to ourselves, other than Willy and Elroy—the other military types.”
We all nod and agree.
Bull adds, “We’re probably being paranoid, but what the hell. It doesn’t pay to be blindsided.”
As Connie and I are taking the elevator to our cabin floor, two dark skinned fellows join us. They look as if they could be Syrian or Saudi, and both are in work clothes, uniforms. So, I can help but ask, "Working aboard."
I get a smile from them and, "Yes, sir. Welders."
"Aw, a great trade. Electric or gas?" I ask.
"Gas, sir."
"Good for you," I say, in a complementary fashion, then ask, "Philippines, right?"
"Yes, sir. And you?" one asks.
"Nevada, USA."
"Aw, Las Vegas, always wished to go there."
"Exciting place," I say, and we reach our floor and wave as we exit.
Connie and I head back to our stateroom, and she steps out on the veranda and gets on the SAT phone to her old friend at the CIA.
“It’s a little after nine P M in DC,” I caution her.
“Janice is a night owl. I could call at midnight.”
Her friend Janice Toynbee answers on the first ring.
Connie must know her very well as she doesn’t even bother with hello. “Big favor, you up for one?” she asks. Then throws out the name. “Amir Al-Karim.” Pauses listening, then adds. “Yeah, I’m on a cruise ship, Blue Pearl, with that hunk I told you about.” Pauses again, “Owe you, kiddo.” Pauses again, eying me with a wink. “Yeah, he’s a stud. Talk tomorrow.” And rings off.
“Stud hunk, eh?” I say with a laugh. “I guess it’s not too late to prove it?”
She flashes me a smile that’s a good enough answer.
Lisbon is a way up River Tejo. I've heard and read quite a bit about Lisbon, knowing it was neutral during the big war. Hell, I watched Casablanca and know half the world was trying to escape the Nazis by reaching the Portuguese capitol. I've travelled quite a bit, but usually with an AR15 at hand. Other than the sand box, I've been to North Korea, Estonia, Latvia, Russia, Montenegro, Italy and Paraguay, Mexico and Canada, of course, and a few of the Caribbean Islands. This is the first time I've traveled as even a semi-tourist. I hope the trip ends that way.
We're docked, so no tender necessary to transport us ashore.
Simone, via her travel agent had hired a guide for the four kids, ignoring Connie and me and, Gretchen, her own lady-in-waiting.
Luckily, I learned of her failure to accommodate her bodyguard well ahead of time and was able to book another car from the same provider. We are to tour the city, all seven hills of Lisbon and several of their monuments. Portugal is, or was, the home of the great navigators including Vasco de Gama who discovered Europe's first sea route to spice-rich India. I will tell you that was a hell of a feat, rounding the horn of Africa in a ship pegged together and glued with stuff made from horse hooves.
I'm impressed with the city with its mix of the historic and the modern, and with the people, who everywhere have a smile and helping hand, if asked.
We lunched at a local’s joint by the harbor and if anyone recognized Miss Simone no one so much as took a picture, so it was an easy day.
We're back to the ship for a welcome nap after stomping over cathedrals and monuments and ending up with a stroll down a high-end street where Simone drops a couple of thou and Connie buys a blouse for thirty-five Euros. That's my girl.
I'm glad we wore the kids out, and that Connie and I had a rest, as tonight it’s Fado in the old city, thankfully near the ship.
I challenge Simone before she disappears into her cabin as to how we're getting to the clubs and am surprised. "Walk," she says, and closes the door in my face.
We're scheduled out at 8:00 p.m., so Connie and I get an hour of shuteye, then order in the room. The ship will bring you anything, anytime, to your cabin, so I knock off a filet and fries and she downs a slab of salmon and a salad. We both refrain from boozing as we'll be shadowing the kids until they crash.
The last two ports have been lax with security and have had screeners, but we've walked right past them. I'm tempted to shove Connie's little .380 in an ankle holster but decide my stun gun and mace, backed by Connie's, will be more than enough should we get mobbed.
Fado is American blues but even more morose. I happen to love jazz, really like the blues, and am impressed with what I hear. The singer, Fadista she's called, is accompanied by a twelve-string guitar but with a round body like a mandolin and other instruments, all strings, that must be of Portuguese origin. Simone seems to be studying every vocalization and riff. The singer rolls into the first word of the next verse as if bemoaning every word of the last one. To be truthful, I didn't know there were as many sad songs as we heard in the first two bars we passed through.
The third is much larger than the first two intimate ones, and I see Simone slip a hundred Euro bill to the bouncer, and, of course, she, Patty, Bryan and Terry are escorted to a table next to the dance floor, which also serves as a stage. A singer in a bright red full skirt and blouse that hides little is moving around the floor from table to table while the three-piece string pickers are seated nearby.
She finishes one song, moves to Simone and stops and stares, and I can't hear but can see her mouth Simone, which makes our girl smile as if she just won the lottery. The singer grabs Simone by the hand and pulls her to her feet. She's wearing a wireless mike and even though there must be a hundred and fifty people in the room, she commands them to silence, and is quickly successful. Then she introduces Simone in both English and Portuguese. The crowd applauds and the singer gives Simone a little bow, asks her something and gets a shake of the head—I presume asking if she wants to sing--then lets her return to her seat as a round of the strong Portuguese cherry liquor, ginjinha, is served.
It's a dozen songs, with me having to pay much closer attention as now everyone in the place knows there's a famous American singer in the place. So, I've left Connie and Gretchen at a table, six tables from the stage, and positioned myself near an exit that's only separated by one table from the kids.
The singer and the three string guys take a break, and I'm surprised by a Benny Goodman recording of Moon Glow blaring from a Deejay that I can now see behind a glass across the room. His little cove was dark during the Fado, but now is brightly lit.
Many of these Portuguese guys are built like the proverbial brick outhouses, and I quickly learn are not shy, as two rise from a table of six across the dance floor and move to Simone and Patty. It's clear they want to dance.
26
&n
bsp; The dance floor has a dozen other couples by the time they've extended hands to the girls. Asking for a dance is no harm, no foul, but I'm surprised when Simone jumps up, giggling, and follows a guy with a bull neck, a square head with flattop haircut from the fifties, equally my size, onto the floor. Patty is not to be left behind, and she's quickly nuzzled up to some longshoreman from the nearby docks in stretch jeans so tight his unit is outlined. Both guys are in muscle-fuck tee-shirts and wear them well.
There's one empty chair at a table near the kids so I sidle forward and motion to the couples at the table. They wave the chair away. I drag it between Bry and Simone's chair.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Bry snaps.
"Near, why?"
"Because some lout dragged Simone on the dance floor, that's why."
"The lout asked her to dance and she accepted. Should I shoot him between the eyes?"
He puffs up but shuts up, and I keep an eye on the girls. The song ends and Simone gives the no-neck a smile and nod and starts back for the table, but he has her by the wrist and jerks her to a halt.
I rise but wait to see how it plays out. Patty's partner is more polite, and she returns, but the longshoreman remains standing near no-neck and Simone, and she's beginning to look less than happy.
Another Benny Goodman song begins, but this one is not exactly a dance tune. One of my favorites, Sing, Sing, Sing, with Gene Krupa doing a long drum solo.
Simone tries to pull away, but no-neck hangs on and begins to drag her toward the table where another four muscle-fuck tee-clad dudes are laughing and pointing at no neck and my charge.
Before I can reach them, Simone is actually looking over her shoulder as if she's happy I'm dogging her trail.
She sees me coming and sets her heels, but the big boy is easily dragging her along. He's three quarters facing away when I catch up, and my short punch to his kidney with my right doesn't drop him, but he releases Simone and turns to face me. He's a little green in the gills. It's not him, but his longshoreman buddy who tries an overhand right at me. I see it coming and see the other four at the table leap to their feet.
I slip the longshoreman's wild haymaker, step into him and have pulled my little stun gun—smaller than a pack of Lucky Strikes—from my pocket as the odds are bad. He catches me with part of a backhand as he recovers from the roundhouse, but it doesn't keep me from stepping into him and upper cutting the stun gun into his crotch. It's that electric welder screech and turns everyone’s eyes our way. His eyes roll back in their sockets and his head bounces on the wooden dance floor—a rat tat tat—as he hits the floor like a felled pine tree. Had it been concrete he might never have gotten up. His girlfriend, if he has one, is going to be disappointed with their love life for a month or so.
No-neck is pretty damn tough as he's recovered and catches me with a glancing right to the cheekbone that rocks me a little, but I duck the roundhouse left—this guy doesn't know from a straight punch—step in and catch him on the side with the stun gun. Quickly two of the offenders are on the floor, wondering what hit them.
But there are four more closing from across the dance floor, then to my surprise I think one of them has slipped on something as he hits the floor flat on his face. Then I see Connie is behind him, now looking for another target with her stun gun. One of the other tee-shirts has seen her drop his buddy and charges her but is stopped six feet away by a spray of mace, and he joins the other three on the floor, but he's squirming like a cat with its tail under the rocking chair. The two-remaining tee-shirts have wised up and are backing away.
As quickly as she appeared, Connie has slipped back into the crowd. As I get to Simone's table all of them are on their feet.
"Let's go," I snap.
"Look out," Simone says, and I turn to see the bouncer who'd been at the door, closing the distance like a torpedo. I hold out my hand, giving him a flat palm and a sign to stop, and he does.
I zap zap zap the crackling stun gun with one hand, which lights up the room like a small burst of lightning, and he extends both hands flat palm out and backs away.
Just to give him some comfort I flash the brass, my bail enforcement officer's badge—worthless as one from a Cracker Jack box here—and would yell "police" but I've failed to learn what the cops are called in Portugal.
And who the hell cares, as we're moving to the door and are out in the street without further discussion, and Simone says, "Enough for tonight."
She leads the way the six blocks back to the ship.
Connie sidles up to me and dabs my cheekbone with a hanky.
"You're bleeding," she says, and I realize he split my cheek a little with that lucky backhand.
"Keeps you healthy, cleaning out the pipes," I say, and give her a wink.
"You know, hot shot, you could likely have talked us out of that one. You weren't showing off for the little girls, were you?"
"No, to the second and ‘maybe’ to the talk our way out, and I could have worn one of those chairs like a horse collar if I hadn't moved quickly."
But she's shaking her head. "Discretion is most often the better part of valor."
She's pissing me off as I'm pretty damn happy we got out of that whole. "You be discreet, I'll be deadly, if you don't mind."
"Everybody's got to be something," she says, and I realize she's a little pissed as well.
My tone is a little harsh, "Would you be chastising me if we were driving, and I swerved the car and avoided a head on collision?"
"What kind of silly question is that?"
"Answer the silly question."
"Of course not."
"Well, I likely avoided us, at least me, getting the dog do kicked out of me with me ending up in the hospital and you pining away at the end of my bed for a month, which is the same thing as avoiding that head-on collision."
She shakes her head. "First, I don't pine. Second, did you graduate from UFUL?"
"UFUL?"
"Yes, the university of fucked-up logic."
"Summa cum laude," I say, but she merely shakes her head, still pissed.
She's pissed, but she does take time to fashion a butterfly bandage and close the half-inch split in my cheek before we turn in. But I get nothing but her back when we hit the sack.
We sleep a little far apart for the first time since the first time.
Connie has an encrypted text before we have our morning coffee. Janice Toynbee reports that Amir Al-Karim is the owner of the one-hundred-two-foot cargo vessel Bit Tawfīq, whose normal range is the North African coast from Alexandria to Casablanca.
"So," I ask, "what does bit tawfig mean? Death to America?"
She laughs, and I'm glad she's got her sense of humor back. "No, actually it means good luck."
"And what does Bit Tawfig haul? Nuclear arms, biological weapons…”
"No, silly. Wheat and other grains. Cotton...harmless stuff."
"Well, the food is damn sure too good on this tub to be loading wheat for gruel and the mattresses don't need another stuffing of cotton, so are you sure you heard something about meeting up with this small cargo tub?"
"Pretty darn sure."
As we're talking, another text arrives from Janice. Connie reads it, then re-reads it, then looks up, biting her lip.
"What?" I ask.
"Janice was called in to the Director's office and questioned about why she'd done a search on the ship. Then when our names came up... It seems someone there knows you and your, to use her term, questionable activities."
"So what?"
"They've asked me to get in touch with another passenger, Harry Drummond."
"For what reason? Why the hell would the CIA…”
"I don't know, he's been advised I'll contact him."
"Then let's go find Harry."
"Just me."
Now it's my turn to laugh. "My feelings are hurt. After all I've done for the Company."
"You've got work to do. The girls will be at the pool. Looks like a be
autiful day."
"Fine. You go find Harry Bond...Bond, Harry Bond," I do a lousy imitation of Sean Connery, "and I'll go to breakfast and wait to be summoned by the little princess, but come find me and fill me in."
"I didn't say he was an agent."
"Okay, you didn't say. I presume he's the pizza cook on board. Go find him."
"If it's anything…"
"Why don't you just call and ask the desk to put you through."
"You really think I should have this conversation on a ship line?"
"Like I said, go find Harry."
I'm pleased she heads for the bathroom and not out the door in her skimpy nighty. I'd have to fight off half the ship.
27
Like Mike and Connie, Harry and Angelina have just climbed out of the sack, but in separate rooms. Harry was awakened by the telltale ring of his office calling on his SAT phone, which he’s left on the floor near the slightly open slider. He's quickly informed of Connie's presence on board and of Mike Reardon and of Reardon's former association with the Company—even though he'd been operating as a private mercenary and covered with the cloak of plausible deniability. As Connie is a former trusted employee, Harry's told to read Nordstrom and Reardon in on a need-to-know basis, without letting anyone else on board know they have any relationship to Harry. He's texted a picture of each of them and informed that Constance Nordstrom will be having coffee at the Panorama Lounge at 0830, expecting contact.
Angelina showers and dresses quickly as Harry has suggested she alone makes the meet—the less obtrusive they can appear, the better—and arranges for all of them to get together when and where it can be accomplished without calling attention. Reardon included, if and only if, Nordstrom feels it safe to read Reardon into what intel Harry is willing to share. While she's gone, he contemplates advising the ship's security officer, Chang, and decides not to do so.
The Panorama lounge is high on Deck Eight and forward, a half-round room that serves only coffee and sweet rolls in the morning, and the first place on the ship to serve anything. However, you can get anything in the ship's larder as room service any time day or night.