by John Lutz
It was as he’d hoped. The freighter had come all the way across the Pacific. It needed to refuel, which would take a while. This was his chance.
The yellow life jacket was too conspicuous. He shucked it and walked into the water. Its smell made him seal his lips tight. Breast-stroking so he wouldn’t make splashes, hoping there was enough mist to conceal him, he swam out to the freighter and along the side away from the barge. If he was lucky, every crewman on duty would be busy with the refueling.
He raised his head, wiped the water from his eyes, and looked up. The bow loomed over him. Its edge was bare metal, the paint probably ground away by the ship’s passage through the floating ice of Siberian waters. The anchor chain ran up from the water, taut and near vertical. The rusty iron links were so big that he could put his hands inside them and get a firm grip. He began to climb, and his cracked rib began to throb.
The pain worsened when he was clear of the water and his hands took his full weight. Wrapping his legs around the chain, he climbed on. The mist was dissipating. The higher he climbed, the more exposed he felt. Luckily, it seemed there was no one around to see him. Above him, the chain disappeared into the hawsepipe. The opening was far too small for him to pass through.
The chain locked between his thighs, he reached up with both hands, hoping he wouldn’t overbalance. His fingers curled over the lip of the deck. He opened his legs and pulled himself up. Pain from his rib seared him. But he managed to get one elbow over the lip. Then he could swing a leg up and lock a foot in place. The rib didn’t appreciate that maneuver, either. A last heave and he rolled onto the deck.
No crewmen around. In fact there was nothing to see but the sides of the containers stacked on deck, except for some sort of metal housing a few feet away. He crawled over, put his back against it, and drew up his legs.
While he got his breath back and waited for the pain in his side to ease, he looked around. The anchor chain reappeared through a hole in the deck and ran over a chock and into a slot in the metal housing, just above his head. He guessed that the housing covered a capstan that would reel in the chain when the anchor was raised. Looking down, he saw that he was sitting on a hatch.
Its dogs resisted his tired fingers, but eventually he got them loose and lifted off the hatch cover. Inside was a narrow platform with a pipe for the chain to pass through. It disappeared into the dimness below. He couldn’t see the bottom. This must be the chain locker. He swung his legs into the hatch, lowered his feet to the platform, crouched and pulled the hatch cover back into place.
Total blackness. A smell of metal and grease. That was it.
A little experimenting established that the only possible position was sitting on the platform, back against the bulkhead, legs straddling the pipe. There wasn’t enough head- or legroom. He had to keep his neck and knees bent. At least his rib wasn’t troubling him. He waited and dozed.
A tremendous din awakened him. The chain was clanging and clattering through the pipe as the anchor was raised. A dank fog filled the locker as the wet chain fell into loops below. Laker covered his left ear. For once he was grateful that the right ear was deaf, leaving a hand free to pinch his nostrils shut. The racket went on and on.
Finally it stopped. Now he could feel the vibration of the ship’s engines in the metal under him. Above him men were shouting, occasionally walking over the hatch cover. He assumed they were making the anchor fast to the side. He sensed movement and heard nearer engines laboring. He guessed there was a tugboat pushing the freighter’s bow, turning her back toward the sea.
Before it got there, Laker fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Coz?” said Tilda. “I’m afraid that our little sojourn in Orlando, delightful as it’s been, must come to an end.”
It was early in the morning. They’d just awakened in their motel room. Ava’d made coffee in the in-room pot. Tilda accepted the Styrofoam cup, sipped, and said, “Execrable. But thanks.”
She was sitting in the one comfortable chair, with her feet up on the bed. Her oyster satin robe had fallen away, revealing her smooth, tan legs. Her posture was rigidly erect, and she had an expression of intense concentration on her face, as if she were trying to thread a needle. By now Ava knew her well enough to know that she was just trying to keep her head absolutely still. She’d staggered in very late last night, and Ava’d had to get out of bed to help her with buttons and shoelaces.
Ava’d been glad that her cousin had managed to find an opportunity for dissipation in Orlando, which she’d called “the absolute low point of American banality.” They weren’t even staying in one of the nicer parts of the city. Determined to find a bolt-hole where Morales and Carlucci would never think of looking for them, she’d booked them into a chain motel on a long strip of other chain motels and fast-food franchises. One of those places where you turn on the TV rather than look out the window, as Tilda described it.
“Can’t face the prospect of another boring day, coz?” Ava asked.
“It’s not that. I can spend hours at our little pool beside the parking lot. But my lawyers—my entertainment lawyers—have summoned me to LA.”
“Oh. When are you leaving?”
“Fairly soon.” Tilda could afford to be vague. She had her own plane, waiting in its hangar at Miami airport. It’d be ready when she was.
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“I don’t think so. Just Disney and Universal threatening to sue me.”
“What? How’d that happen?”
“Very swiftly.” Tilda smiled as she fingered her med-alert bracelet. It was dark green today. “You’ll remember, day before last, I was looking for something interesting to do, and I saw that some young actors with day jobs on the theme park rides had put together a satirical revue. I found it scurrilous and salacious and good fun all around. So I went backstage and suggested to them some people I know who could help them make a podcast and get it noticed. They acted on my advice. Right away. And the thing went viral. Unfortunately, they listed me as executive producer, and—”
“Disney and Universal turned out to have no sense of humor. I’m sorry, coz. I can see why you have to go.”
“Well, it’s not just the lawsuit. Now Lena Dunham is after the movie rights to the podcast, and so is Seth Rogen. But enough of my frivolity. What are you going to do, coz?”
Ava sighed. “Time to face the question, all right. I’ve been calling Stan, the friend who’s helping me at NSA, and Amighetti, the cop in Baltimore, and they have nothing to report. And I’ve been watching the news. Nothing there, either.”
“Nor about Thomas Laker?”
“No. I have no idea whether he’s alive or dead.”
Tilda put her feet to the floor and leaned forward. The movement caused a wave of pain to cross her face, but she ignored it to pat Ava’s knee. “I’m sorry, coz. I shouldn’t even ask. You have enough burdens to bear. Don’t you think it’s time to go back to Washington?”
“I can’t. I still have nothing the NSA would consider evidence that Morales and Carlucci had Ken Brydon murdered.”
“Seems to me you know everything. Brydon was killed because Ruy didn’t want the bad news about the toxic spill reaching Gonçalves. The great commie-capitalist partnership to remake Cuba is a lot shakier than they’re letting on.”
“It all looks clear to us. But at Fort Meade they’ll tell me I’m just piling one guess on top of another.”
“Well, fuck them. Go to Senator Chuck North.”
“I started with him.”
“Go back to him with what you know now. Time for him to do some work for a change. Put the screws to NSA.” Tilda took Ava’s hand and looked into her eyes. “Coz, you’ve found out all you’re going to. You’re not going to get close to Morales and Carlucci again. It’s dangerous even to try.”
Ava squeezed her cousin’s hand. “You’re right. Of course you are. It’s time to go back.”
Tilda rose, wincing and smiling
. “Time for a drink. Hair of the dog. And to celebrate that I don’t have to worry about you anymore. You’ll be safe in Washington.”
“Nobody’s safe in Washington. But I get your meaning. I’ve never thanked you properly for all your help. You’ve performed a valuable service for your country.”
“How annoying. After I’ve tried to avoid my patriotic duty all my life. Bloody Mary or mimosa?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Laker didn’t know what had awakened him. Then he realized that it was the silence. The ship’s engines were stopped. The tinkling of the anchor chain as the waves shifted it had ceased. But he had the sense that the ship was moving.
Strange.
These were all the sensations and thoughts he had time for before thirst overwhelmed him. Whenever he’d awakened, over the last hours, it had come back stronger, gradually crowding out his other discomforts, the cramping of his limbs, the burning of his cracked rib, his hunger. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d finished that water bottle on the pilot boat, but he couldn’t last much longer.
He was going to have to look for water.
He felt around for the dogs, found them, twisted them open. The effort that cost told him how weak he’d become. Getting up on his knees, he cautiously lifted the hatch cover an inch or two. Light flooded in the chain locker, blinding him. He couldn’t wait for his eyes to adjust, he had to see if there was anybody in the bow. Squinting and blinking, he looked in all directions, saw no feet in the vicinity. He pushed the hatch cover back and hauled himself clumsily onto the deck. Then just lay there a while, breathing the sweet, pure air.
As his pupils narrowed he could see that it was full daylight. He had no idea what time. Raising himself, he looked over the bow. The ship was in a narrow channel. Dead ahead, the tops of the great steel gates of a lock showed. Beyond was a lake surrounded by jungle-covered hills. He rose shakily and staggered to the rail. A hairy rope as thick as two fists put together ran from an opening in the hull to a boxy little electric locomotive. It was pulling the ship without noise or strain.
They were transiting the Panama Canal. That left no room for doubt. The Comercio Marinero wasn’t homebound for Guayaquil. It was heading into the Atlantic.
What did that mean? Laker tried to sketch out alternatives and weigh consequences, but his mind was too cloudy. He needed water. On this big ship, there were very few people. With luck he’d find it without being seen. He made his way along the stacked containers, staggering, pausing every few steps to lean a shoulder against their metal walls. Finally he reached a vacant stretch of deck. The sterncastle loomed over it. Anyone who happened to look down from the bridge would see him. Nothing he could do about that.
Running was not a possibility, but he walked as quickly as he could to the sterncastle. Leaned against a bulkhead covered with flaking white paint and rust spots as he turned the wheel of the hatch and stepped through.
He was in a dim, narrow corridor smelling of disinfectant. Were there drinking fountains on ships? Vending machines? Maybe not, but he could find a faucet somewhere. He set out along the corridor, one palm on either wall.
A crewman in light blue overalls came around a turn and stopped dead, staring at him.
Laker’s right hand dropped to the cargo pocket on his thigh. But he didn’t draw his pistol. Something about the man’s face made him hesitate. He was a young Filipino with glossy black hair falling over his forehead, dark eyes behind steel-framed glasses, hollow cheeks and a patchy beard and moustache. His astonishment faded quickly, replaced by an expression Laker did not understand.
The crewman looked over his shoulder, then back at Laker. He put his finger to his lips. Coming closer, he whispered, “If captain find you, he throw you overboard.”
Confused as he was by the man’s friendly behavior, Laker didn’t doubt that.
The crewman looked over his shoulder again. Putting a hand on Laker’s chest, he gently pushed him back a few steps. Then he opened a narrow door and urged Laker inside. This was where the smell of disinfectant was coming from. It must be a storage closet.
“You wait,” the crewman said, and closed the door.
Laker was back in the dark again. Here there was no room to sit down. He sagged against a bulkhead, and his face sank into the damp tangles of a mop. He pushed himself upright. Buckets and bottles stood around his feet and he couldn’t move without knocking them over and making noise. Only the reek of disinfectant was keeping him conscious.
In less than a minute, the door opened. The crewman’s arms were full. He handed Laker a banana, a Mars bar, and two bottles of water.
“Thanks,” Laker croaked.
The door shut. Pocketing everything but one bottle, Laker struggled with its plastic cap for what felt like forever. Finally it was open. The tepid water was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. He swallowed and swallowed till the bottle was empty, then reached for the other one. He drank it more slowly and was just finishing when the door opened again.
Another man, also in light blue overalls, was standing beside the crewman. He was older, just as thin, with gray flecks in his short black hair. His large brown eyes appraised Laker closely.
“I recognize you,” he said. “You are the pilot.”
This must have been one of the men at the top of the rope ladder. Laker said, “I’m the man who went into the water off your port side, but I’m not a pilot.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Laker. I work for the American government.”
“My name is Milaflores.”
The water was already doing wonders for Laker’s mental clarity. He realized he’d heard that name before—in a sidewalk café in Paris, from Lina Opalski, sole survivor of Home Port. He said, “Ramón Milaflores?”
The crewman blinked. “How do you know? Why are you here?’
“Because of the text message you sent from Magadan.”
Ramón looked at the other crewman, then back at Laker. He put out his hand. Laker took it. It was small, heavily calloused, and strong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tilda was the first to depart, in her Avanti, while Ava wrestled with problems her cousin didn’t have, like finding a seat on a flight out. Everybody in Orlando seemed to want to go to Washington today. The best she could do was a mid-afternoon flight with a stop in Atlanta. It would be night when she arrived, but people worked late on Capitol Hill, and she decided to go straight from the airport to Uncle Chuck’s office.
That meant dressing in “federal rig” as Tilda called it: dark blue pantsuit, white pleated blouse, flat shoes. She was pleased to look in the mirror and see her old self again. The long, nerve-wracking masquerade was done.
She was packing her designer frocks when the maid knocked on the door. It was checkout time. She quickly gathered her belongings and went down to the front desk, where she called a cab. It got her to the airport well before her flight. She collected her boarding pass, checked her suitcase, and was looking for a place to eat lunch when her cell phone chimed: incoming email.
It was from Rodrigo Morales. The subject line was “Cruise to Nowhere.” She opened it.
Hey Ava,
We’re going out in my boat, how ‘bout joining us? We just do a loop, an hour out and an hour back. You don’t need to bring much, just the bottom of your bikini.
Directions to the marina followed. Ava was about to delete the message. But she noticed that it went on, so she scrolled down.
Your cousin’s already said she’d come along. Arturo was lucky enough to catch up with her as she was about to board her plane. You know, the Embraer Phenom 300, ID number N136A, in Hangar B-10 at Miami airport.
See you,
Ruy
It was all correct. They’d flown down to Florida in that plane. She should have thought of the possibility that Carlucci would have its hangar watched. But she hadn’t, and now Tilda was in their hands.
* * *
When she reached th
e marina, Ava parked her rental car under a No Parking sign. She picked up the papers on the passenger seat and folded them. At each stoplight along the way, she’d been scrawling her statement, everything she knew or suspected about Morales and Carlucci. She signed the statement and put it in the glove compartment, then got out and locked the car.
Crossing the parking lot, she stepped onto the floating wooden walkway that ran between berthed boats. Their rigging tinkled and clattered in the wind. She made eye contact with every person she passed, hoping that somebody would remember her when the police came around asking.
Morales’s yacht was right where she’d been told it would be. Its swooping prow overhung the walkway. It was long, sleek, and white, with a band of darkened glass running around its superstructure. No one was visible on board. But by the time she reached the foot of the gangplank, Carlucci was standing at the top of it.
He was wearing shorts that revealed thin, hairy legs and a colorful print shirt. The left sidepiece of his sunglasses was, as usual, taped to his temple. The sea breeze stirred his long hair.
“Please come aboard, Ms. North.”
“I want to see my cousin.”
“You’ll see her soon enough.”
“I don’t believe you have her.”
Carlucci pulled something from his pocket and tossed it down to her. She caught it. It was the med-alert bracelet. The dark green one Tilda’d been wearing that morning.