“We have to consider all the possibilities, Mr. Evered. She might be sitting in a lounge somewhere, still angry.”
“That’s what I’m talking about—go find her!”
“We’ll do that. We’ll start by paging her on the public address system.” LeSeur already had a pretty good idea of how things stood. The couple had hit middle age, were having trouble in their marriage, and took the crossing to try to put some magic back into life. Maybe the husband been caught boning someone at the office, or she herself had been tempted by a little afternoon delight with a neighbor. So they went on a romantic ocean voyage to patch things up, and instead of finding the magic ended up fighting their way across the Atlantic.
Evered frowned again. “It was just an argument, nothing serious. She’s never stayed out all night. Damn it, you need to get your people together and start a—”
“Mr. Evered,” LeSeur interrupted smoothly, “I wonder if you’d mind my saying something? To reassure you.”
“What?”
“I’ve been working aboard passenger ships for many years now. I see this kind of thing all the time. A couple quarrels, one steps out. It isn’t like your wife just walked out of your house, Mr. Evered. This is theBritannia , the largest passenger ship afloat. There are hundreds, thousands of things on board that could have distracted your wife. Perhaps she’s in one of the casinos—they’re open all night, you know. Maybe she’s in the spa. Or shopping. Perhaps she stopped someplace to rest her feet, then fell asleep—there are two dozen lounges on board. Or perhaps she ran into somebody she knew; a woman, perhaps, or . . .”
LeSeur let his voice trail off decorously, but he knew the meaning was clear.
“Or what? Are you implying that my wife might’ve met another man?” Evered rose from the bed in a sad, middle-aged fury.
LeSeur stood as well and smiled disarmingly. “Mr. Evered, you misunderstood me. I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. It’s just that I’ve seen this happen a hundred times before, and it always works out in the end. Always. Your wife is just out enjoying herself. We’ll make a few announcements over the PA system and ask her to contact us or you. I guarantee you she’ll be back. Tell you what: why don’t you order breakfast for two, served en suite? I’ll bet you anything she’ll be here before it arrives. I’ll send up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, on the house.”
Evered was breathing heavily, making an effort to control himself.
“In the meantime, have you got a picture of your wife I could borrow? We have your ID photos from embarkation, of course, but it always helps to have more than one image. I’ll circulate them among our security staff, so they can keep an eye out.”
Evered turned away, walked into the bathroom. LeSeur heard a zipper opening, the sound of shuffling and rummaging. A minute later Evered emerged again, a photo in his hand.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Evered. The
Britannia
is probably one of the safest environments in the world.”
The man glared back at him. “You better damn well be right.”
LeSeur forced a smile. “Now, order that breakfast for two. And have a good day.” He let himself out of the stateroom.
In the hall, he paused to examine the photo. To his surprise, he found that Ms. Evered was something of a babe. Not outrageously stunning, of course, but he wouldn’t throw her out of bed: a dozen years younger than her husband, thin and blonde and stacked and wearing a two-piece swimsuit. Now he was more certain what had happened: the missus, pissed off, had met someone and was shacked up with him. He shook his head. These luxury liners were like one big floating orgy. Something happened to people when they got away from land—they started acting like a bunch of sybarites. If Mr. Evered knew what was good for him, he’d go out and do the same: there were plenty of rich widows aboard . . .
LeSeur chuckled quietly at the thought. Then he pocketed the picture. He’d be sure to send it down to security: after all, Kemper and his boys were connoisseurs of hot-looking women, and no doubt they’d appreciate an eyeful of the curvaceous Ms. Evered.
19
THE CHIEF OF SECURITY’S OFFICE WAS IN THE CENTRAL SECURITY complex, a tangle of low-ceilinged rooms on Deck A, at theBritannia ’s waterline. Asking directions, Pendergast passed first a manned checkpoint, then a series of holding cells, a locker room and showers, and then a large circular room filled with dozens of closed-circuit televisions cycling through hundreds, maybe thousands, of surveillance cameras sprinkled about the ship. Three bored security officers kept a listless eye on the walls of flat-panel screens. Beyond that stood a closed, faux-wood door markedKemper . The ship’s legendary brightwork, Pendergast noticed, did not extend belowdecks.
He knocked.
“Enter,” came a voice.
Pendergast stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Patrick Kemper was behind his desk, ear to a telephone. He was a short, burly man with a large, heavy head, thick knotty ears, a brown hairpiece, and a perpetual put-upon expression stamped on his features. His office was remarkably bare: other than a framed picture of theBritannia and some internal North Star promotional posters, there were hardly any furnishings or decoration. The clock on the wall behind Kemper read twelve noon exactly.
Kemper put down the phone. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Pendergast sat in one of the two unpadded seats facing the desk. “You asked to see me?”
Kemper’s put-upon expression deepened. “Not exactly. Hentoff requested it.”
Pendergast winced at the accent. “So the casino manager has agreed to my little proposal? Excellent. I’ll be most happy to return the favor tonight, when the card counters turn out for their evening’s work.”
“You work out those details with Hentoff.”
“How kind.”
Kemper sighed. “I have a lot on my plate at the moment. So I hope we can keep this brief. What, exactly, do you need?”
“Access to the ship’s central safe.” Abruptly, the security chief’s weary attitude evaporated. “No frigging way.”
“Ah—and here I was under the misapprehension we had an agreement.”
Kemper’s look changed to disbelief. “Passengers are not authorized to enter the vault, much less snoop around in it.”
Pendergast’s reply, when it came, was mild. “It’s not hard to imagine what might happen to a security director who presided over a million-pound loss in the casinos on a mere seven-day crossing. Hentoff may be in charge of the casinos, but when it comes to security, the, ah,chip stops with you.”
Several moments passed in which the two men looked at each other. Then Kemper licked his lips. “Only the first officer, the staff captain, and the commodore have access to the vault,” he said in a low voice.
“Then I suggest you phone the officer of your choice.”
Kemper continued to stare at Pendergast for another minute. At last—without taking his eyes off him—he picked up the phone and dialed. A brief, murmured conversation ensued. When Kemper put down the phone, the expression on his face had not quite cleared. “The first officer will meet us there now.”
It was the work of five minutes to make their way to the vault, located one level below on Deck B, in a heavily reinforced section of the ship that also housed the master guidance control system and the server farms controlling theBritannia ’s internal network. Here, below the waterline, the vibration of the diesels was more pronounced. The first officer was already waiting at the security station, looking every inch a ship’s commander with his silver hair and smart uniform.
“This is Mr. Pendergast,” Kemper said, a distinct lack of grace in his voice.
LeSeur nodded. “We met last night. At Roger Mayles’s table.”
Pendergast smiled thinly. “My reputation precedes me, thanks to the good Mr. Mayles. This is the situation, gentlemen: a client has engaged me to find an object that was stolen from him. I know three things about this object: it is a unique Tibetan artifac
t; it is somewhere on this ship; and its current owner—who, by the way, is also on the ship—murdered a man to obtain it.”
He patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “My list of suspects contains three names of passengers who, according to Mr. Mayles, consigned items to the ship’s vault. I would like to give those items a cursory inspection, if you please.”
“Why?” Kemper asked. “Each suite is equipped with its own safe. If what you say is really true, the thief wouldn’t stash the thing there.”
“The object is over four feet long. That makes it too large for in-room safes, other than the ones in the very largest suites.”
LeSeur frowned. “Let’s make this brief. Mr. Pendergast: you can look, but you are not to touch. Mr. Kemper, get one of your men in here, please. I’d like three pairs of eyes to witness this.”
They passed the security station and went down a short corridor, which dead-ended in an unmarked door. The first officer reached into his pocket, pulled out a key on a steel chain, and unlocked the door. Kemper swung it open and they entered.
Although the room beyond was small, the rear wall was completely taken up by a massive circular vault door of polished steel. LeSeur waited while one of the guards from the security station entered the room. Then, extracting another key from his pocket, he inserted it into a lock in the vault door. This was followed by an identity card slipped into a card reader to one side of the safe. Next, LeSeur pressed his palm into a hand geometry scanner beside the card slot. There was a metallicthunk and a red light above the door went on.
LeSeur walked to a large combination dial set into the far side of the vault door. Shielding the dial from the other occupants of the room, he spun it left and right several times. The light above the door turned green; the first officer turned a wheel set in its center, then pulled it toward him, and the massive door swung open.
The interior was illuminated in a watery green light. Beyond the door lay a chamber about twelve feet square. The rear part of the vault was secured by a steel curtain, behind which lay numerous metal boxes, racked in sliding frames, shoulder high. The two facing walls were covered in safe doors, some quite large, their flush front panels gleaming dully in the pale light. Each had a key slot in its center, with a number etched into the steel directly above.
“A safe of safes,” said Pendergast. “Most impressive.”
“Right,” said LeSeur. “Who are we looking for?”
Pendergast pulled the sheet out of his pocket. “The first is Edward Robert Smecker, Lord Cliveburgh.” He paused for a second, reading. “It seems that once his ancestral fortune was exhausted, he resorted to creative ways to make ends meet. Hangs out with the jet set, makes the rounds of Monaco, St. Tropez, Capri, and the Costa Smeralda. Jewelry tends to disappear when he’s around. None of the jewelry he supposedly stole was ever recovered, and he’s beaten every rap. It is assumed he recuts the gems and melts down the metal for bullion.”
The first officer turned to a terminal in the near wall, typed briefly on its keyboard. “That would be number 236.” He walked over to a small safe. “This isn’t big enough for the object you mention.”
“Perhaps the object’s profile can be reduced in size by cutting or folding. If you’d be so good as to open it?”
With an almost imperceptible tightening of the lips, LeSeur inserted a key and turned it. The door swung open to reveal a large aluminum suitcase with a dial lock.
“Interesting,” Pendergast said. He prowled around the open door for a moment, rather catlike himself. Then he reached out and, with utmost delicacy, began turning the dials, one after the other, with a long, spidery finger.
“Just a minute!” Kemper cried. “I told you, touch
nothing
—”
“Ah!” Pendergast raised the lid on the suitcase. Inside were many bricks of aluminum foil and cellophane wrap, each coated with a thick layer of wax.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Kemper. “I hope this isn’t what it looks like.” He slipped a penknife out of his pocket, stabbed it through the layers of wax and foil, and drew it down, revealing a crusty white powder. He reached in, dabbed a fingertip into the powder, took a taste.
“Cocaine,” he said.
“It would appear,” Pendergast murmured, “our good Lord Cliveburgh has started a new and even more lucrative business venture.”
“What do we do?” said LeSeur, staring at the white powder.
“Nothing, for now,” said Kemper, shutting the suitcase and spinning the dial. “Believe me, this isn’t going anywhere. We’ll radio ahead to U.S. Customs. When we come into port, Cliveburgh will collect his trunk and they’ll nail him quayside with the stuff—offthe ship.”
“Very well,” said LeSeur. “But how will we explain that we opened—?”
“We don’t need to,” said Kemper grimly. “Leave the details me.”
“What a stroke of luck,” said Pendergast cheerfully, as the gloom deepened in the room. “It seems rather fortunate I came along!”
No one else seemed to share his view in this matter.
“Next on my list is the movie star, Claude Dallas.”
LeSeur noticed that Kemper had begun to sweat. If this ever got out . . . He turned to the terminal without bringing the thought to completion. “Number 822.”
They approached a larger vault. “Promising,” murmured Pendergast.
LeSeur opened it with his key. Inside were several old steamer trunks, covered with stickers for such destinations as Rio de Janeiro, Phuket, and Goa. The hasps were protected by fist-sized padlocks.
“Hmm,” Pendergast said. He bent before the trunk, massaging his chin curiously.
“Mr. Pendergast,” the security chief said in a warning tone.
Pendergast reached out two lean hands, one of which held a tiny, gleaming tool; he massaged the lock, turning it between his fingers. It sprang open with a click.
“Mr. Dallas should have this lock replaced,” he said. And before Kemper or LeSeur could object, he swung it away, opened the hasp, and raised the lid.
A rubber suit lay on top, along with some braided horsehair whips, chains, manacles, ropes, and various leather and iron devices of an obscure nature.
“How curious,” said Pendergast, reaching in. This time LeSeur said nothing as Pendergast pulled out a Lycra Superman cape and suit, with the crotch cut out. He examined it carefully, plucked something from the shoulder, placed it in a test tube that seemed to appear from nowhere and disappear into nowhere, and then gently laid the garment back down. “I’m not sure it’s necessary to check Mr. Dallas’s other boxes.”
“It is certainlynot necessary,” said LeSeur dryly.
“And last,” Pendergast said, “is Felix Strage, chairman of the Greek and Roman department at the Met. He is returning from a rather unpleasant trip to Italy, where he was questioned by the Italian authorities over some purchases his museum made back in the 1980s of illegally acquired antiquities.”
LeSeur gave Pendergast a long, hard look. Then he turned back to the keyboard. “Number 597,” he said. “Before I open the safe, let’s get one thing straight. Keep your hands off. Mr. Wadle here will do the handling.” He nodded to the guard. “If you open any of the contents, this fact-finding mission of yours will end abruptly and prematurely. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” the agent replied good-naturedly.
LeSeur moved to a safe on the lowest tier of the right wall, one of the largest in the entire vault. He paused, fishing for a different key. Then he knelt, unlocked the steel door, and pulled it open. Inside were three massive, squat wooden crates. The safe was quite deep, and the light was too dim to make the objects out with any success.
Pendergast stared at the crates a moment, motionless. He turned and slipped a screwdriver out of his pocket. “Mr. Wadle?”
The security guard looked with uncertainty at Kemper, who nodded curtly.
Wadle took the screwdriver and unscrewed the side of the crate—eight screws in
all—and then removed it. Inside was bubble wrap and foam-in-place. He eased aside the bubble wrap and removed two blocks of foam to reveal the side of a Greek vase.
Pendergast slipped a penlight from his pocket and shined it into the open crate. “Hmm. We seem to have a calyx-crater. Undoubtedly genuine. It seems our Dr. Strage is up to his old tricks, smuggling more antiquities for his museum.” He straightened up, replacing the penlight in his pocket. He stepped back from the wall of safes. “Thank you for your time and patience, gentlemen.”
LeSeur nodded. Kemper said nothing.
“And now, forgive me if I leave in haste.” And with that he bowed, turned, and stepped out of the vault.
In the elevator, ascending to Deck 12, Pendergast paused to remove the list from his pocket. He drew a line through Lord Cliveburgh and another through Dallas. He did not draw a line through Strage.
20
CONSTANCE GREENE WALKED DOWN THE ELEGANT CORRIDOR, Marya Kazulin at her side. She felt an unaccustomed thrill—the thrill of mystery, deceit, and investigation.
“The uniform fits you perfectly,” Kazulin whispered in her thick accent.
“Thank you for bringing it to my suite.” “Is nothing. Uniforms are the only thing we have in plenty. Except for dirty laundry maybe.”
“I’m unfamiliar with this type of shoe.”
“Work shoes. The kind that nurses wear. They have a soft sole, like sneakers.”
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