by Rex Burns
“Not coincidentally, vessels that fly flags of convenience usually have crews of convenience. The British Trent, registered in Bermuda, had British officers but a crew from Sierra Leone. The Western Winner was registered in Panama, officered by Koreans, and crewed by Burmese.” He shook his head. “All those accidents were the result of human error, which comes when you have mixed crews who can’t speak one another’s languages. And poor training—or none at all. Drink up, dear girl. It’s not often I have the pleasure of conversation with a lovely and intelligent young lady.”
“Have you sailed on many ships?”
“Oh, no. I used to be dreadfully ill just crossing the Channel on a calm day. Thank heavens for the Chunnel. I’ve never boarded a vessel and have absolutely no desire to. Prefer to fly. Much quicker. Besides, I know far too much about the safety records of vessels. But damned little about aircraft. Makes me feel a bit more comfortable. Fool’s paradise, eh? No, I’m no sailor. All I do is send the ships where the cargoes are.”
“You handle the Aurora Victorious as well?”
“Certainly. Though she’s currently on a time charter, so there’s little call for my services until the time’s up. The Arabian Gulf to the Mexican Gulf, carrying crude for BP. I think the contract lasts another sixty-five weeks. Though I’d have to glance at the charter party to be certain. Does your company need that information? Most willing to cooperate with the underwriter chaps. And I must say”—he reached to pat the back of her hand—“you’re a most attractive underwriter’s representative.”
“Thank you. Did you hear anything about the death of their third mate?”
“Only that it occurred. Tragic, of course, but not surprising. The world’s tanker fleets lose up to three hundred men a year, and climbing. Collision and explosion are the main culprits, caused by human error of course. Volatile cargo. Crews can’t wear nylon shirts because static electric sparks from the cloth could set a tanker ablaze. Amazing, isn’t it? And then there are the everyday casualties from slippery decks, heavy equipment, gassing—any number of clever ways a poor sailor can die.”
“Gassing?”
“Hydrocarbon fumes are quite toxic, and tank inspection is one of the most dangerous undertakings in a generally dangerous occupation. Has to be done of course, but even after flushing the fumes out of a tank, bubbles of the stuff can float about. Invisible but quickly lethal. Two or three lungs full and a chap’s unconscious. Three or four minutes and brain damage occurs.” He added cheerfully, “Death comes after about six minutes. I’ve heard tanker men say they’ve asked their mates to let them die if they’ve been out for more than four minutes. Prefer death to being a vegetable, I suppose. Can’t say I blame them.”
“Don’t they have breathing gear?”
“Certainly—Drager equipment. But there’s always malfunction and human error, dear girl. Human error always, aboard ship or aboard platforms like your famous Gulf spill, eh?”
“Do you know if Hercules Maritime has other claims pending with underwriters?”
“Claims?” It took him a moment to shift tracks. “Oh—the Golden Dawn. No, I suppose Lloyd’s would know. They’re the certification society Hercules Maritime uses for their vessels. Both the Golden Dawn and the Victorious were certified by Lloyd’s.” He explained, “Shippers always ask for the vessel’s certification society and the date of its last safety survey. These affect their insurance rates, you understand.”
“You have a very good memory for dates and details, Mr. Braithwaite.”
A blush made his mustache seem whiter. “Ah, no. It’s my occupation, after all. And I studied Egyptian history at university—makes a chap absolutely reflexive in his use of memory, you know.”
“Egyptian history?”
“Yes. So how did I become a shipping agent? Needed a job, dear girl. Would much preferred to have been a university don, but not much call for Egyptologists. However, it turned out to be good training for what I do: close and quick reading, exercise of memory with a plethora of arcane detail. Must be a bit like your work, eh? Investigations, names and dates, seemingly irrelevant details, that sort of thing?” He toasted her with his glass. “Seems a bit odd, a girl as young and attractive as you being an investigator. It’s certainly no longer the world I grew up in.”
“Almost as odd as an Egyptologist becoming a shipping contractor.”
“Eh? Oh. Hadn’t thought of it that way. I suppose you needed a job too, eh?”
“Have you spoken to other investigators about Hercules Maritime?”
“Your Mr. Herberling telephoned a fortnight ago, I think it was. Wanted what I had on the master and the officers of the Victorious.”
Julie remembered the photocopy of the wrinkled scraps of paper that had been found in Herberling’s case notes. One page had held a list of names and addresses, some circled. The other page had her father’s name and that of the Aurora Victorious. “Were you able to tell him anything?”
“I told him what little I knew about Captain Boggs and promised to try and find information on the others. But he’s never rung back. I assume the information’s become irrelevant.”
“Herberling was murdered last week.”
“Oh, my!” After a pause, Braithwaite finished his whiskey with a gulp and gazed away at a glass panel whose etching depicted gracefully intertwined roses. “Anything to do with—I mean, ah …”
“We’ve found no connection.” Nor was Braithwaite’s report on Boggs found, either. “The police think it was a burglary.”
“But you have your suspicions?”
“Care to tell me what you came up with on Boggs?”
“Oh, certainly. He was made redundant when BP flagged out its fleet. Spent several years waiting for another command, I hear. A not unusual story, unfortunately. Finally came to Hercules Maritime as master of a midsize tanker, the Shining Dawn, and moved up to the Aurora Victorious.”
“Any personal or professional problems? Any history of indebtedness or credit problems?”
“I really can’t say. Certainly no legal issues. Owners and insurers are very particular about that sort of data, they are. As for being in debt, I suppose four or five years without work would cause hardship. Don’t see how it couldn’t, unless he or his wife had other income, of course.” The cigarette paused just below the mustache as Braithwaite remembered something. “Which they might well have—their home is in Hampstead Heath. Rather posh area, so they must have money from somewhere.”
“What about the other officers? Have you heard anything about them?”
“Not a great deal. The first mate, Pressler, has a bit of an odor about him—something about an investigation for assault or even manslaughter on one of his earlier ships. Nothing proven—not enough to keep him from getting another berth, leastwise. The chief engineering officer, Bowman, is very senior. Wouldn’t be surprised if he retired in another year or two. The other officers, both navigation and engineering, all apparently have satisfactory records. They’re quite young, but that’s the way with so many of the new officers nowadays.”
“Did Herberling ask you for any other information?”
“Only the registrar entries and home addresses for the officers and ratings on the Aurora Victorious. He was particularly interested in their licenses, but I found nothing out of the ordinary there. Oh, yes—he wanted any information I had on the Aurora’s course of travel. Couldn’t help him with that, either. I know the sailing and docking dates, but I don’t get daily reports like the owners do.”
“You told him that?”
“Well, sent him a fax explaining that he’d have to ask Hercules Maritime. Wonderful machine, the fax. Works twenty-four hours a day and one doesn’t have to waste time waiting for someone to answer one’s ring. Very convenient for my line of work, you see, dealing with vastly different time zones.”
Julie thought of something else. “Did you look at Third
Officer Rossi’s license?”
“Yes! Mr. Herberling asked particularly for that.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette. “Very little there, of course. Brand-new officer and all. But I did discover he was licensed as a third officer by the Brazilian board.” He added, with a shake of the head, “Now I have no chance to send that information to Mr. Herberling, do I?”
“Brazil?”
“It’s not uncommon for more and more chaps to get their licenses wherever they can—crews of convenience, you see, and one country’s license is respected by all others.” A shrug. “Even if one nation’s examination is far less rigorous than, say, in Britain or the United States.”
“Could Rossi have bought his license without taking an exam?”
Braithwaite nodded. “It’s possible. Difficult to prove. For underwriting purposes, however, it would be very dangerous. Could open an owner to a charge of negligence or even abetting. It would negate the vessel’s insurance. But of course you know all that.”
Julie took a sip from her glass. “Did Herberling say why he wanted this information?”
“No. Seemed to have his reasons, just as you do. And I was—and am—always happy to assist the underwriters to keep insurance rates down. Good for my business, good for the shipping business in general.” He glanced at his empty glass, then into her eyes. “Besides, it’s turned into an unexpected and very great pleasure.”
The unexpected and very great pleasure led to another round of drinks, which Braithwaite would not let Julie pay for—“You’ve brightened my day, dear girl! Made me the envy of every man in the pub. I insist!”
“Do you know Mr. Goff at Hercules Maritime?”
“Robert? Speak with him almost every week.”
“You deal directly with the ship’s agents rather than with Mr. Wood?”
“Certainly. No reason to include Wood in the details of inquiry and planning. He signs the charter parties, of course, but the sort of routine information I need—”
“Do you see Goff often?”
“No … I don’t believe I’ve ever met him in person. Everything over the telephone. Strange, isn’t it?” He smiled at a corner of the room. “I’ve been telephoning Hercules Maritime almost daily for years and know Robert’s and Wood’s voices intimately. But I wouldn’t be able to tell you whose face those voices belonged to. I suppose I have closer acquaintance with voices and computer terminals than I have in personal life.” He added brightly, “Rather sad, when you think of it.”
Julie shifted direction. “That building their offices are in looks like a run-down tenement. I expected something a little more … business-like.”
“Oh, well. That building is a Crown property. Owned by the Queen, you see, and the Windsors are notorious landlords. Everything for profit and nothing for upkeep.” He waved his cigarette in a small circle and chuckled. “A metaphor for the entire nation, perhaps. Many of the buildings in this area of London make handsome profits for the royal family and the peers. Still, that doesn’t prevent the Queen from asking Parliament for more money every year or two, does it?”
And then Julie came back to the main target. “How can I get in touch with Mr. Goff outside the Hercules Maritime office?”
“Eh? Oh—I see!” A long inhale and a puff of thin blue smoke as he considered. “He does have a pager number for emergencies. I suppose you could reach him on that after working hours.” Casually, he lifted an address book from his jacket’s inside pocket and dangled it between thumb and forefinger. “You would like to have it, of course.”
“I would be very grateful.”
“And discreet, dear girl?”
She gave him her warmest smile. “Very.”
He smiled back. “So I’ve noticed.”
When they finally made their way out of the New Roses to a now vacant Leadenhall Street, Julie could feel the effects of the shandies as they said good-bye, and she wasn’t as alert as she should have been. It wasn’t until she was in the lift up from Russell Square Station that she glimpsed a face she half noticed earlier. It had gazed into the window of a closed shop as she and Braithwaite came out of the pub. The half-turned profile had a snub nose and contrasting bulbous chin. Average height, denim jacket that verged on dressy, the man now stood at the back of the elevator and stared over Julie’s head. Blue eyes. No marks or scars. Sandy hair with a slight wave. And a bland innocence in avoiding her study.
It could be coincidence. London channeled much of its human traffic through the Tube. It wasn’t impossible to see the same face on a connecting train or in another station. Still, like her father, Julie was suspicious of coincidence.
The station was a short distance from London University—one of the few sections of the city she knew thoroughly. Those were streets she and Ian had walked, she painfully in love with the older youth who introduced her to London, to the noisy and crowded student pubs, to passion, to sex, to loss. The streets, walks, buildings, and fences had changed little in ten years. Russell, Tavistock, and Woburn squares with their gardens and paths still evoked memories she thought were gone with Ian.
Now, instead of heading toward her room in the Russell Hotel, venerable and haunted with memories, she turned away down Bernard Street, strolling toward the worn grass of Brunswick Square. Turning left for a block, she went up Tavistock and paused to read another of the pale blue historical plaques—the site of another pub favored by Charles Dickens, the Edwin Drood. Then she crossed with the traffic light into Tavistock Square and ambled along one of the quieter paths between trimmed lawns. Pausing to glance behind, she saw a now-familiar snub nose and rounded chin near the square’s gate, apparently enjoying the traffic of Woburn Place.
She meandered down the truncated streets and quiet corners that formed the grounds around London University’s gray buildings. But memories of the lecture halls, of the heady joy of study for its own sake, of two lovers lingering in quiet corners had been replaced by thoughts about the man following her.
Twilight brought out the streetlights as she walked a little faster now. The massive dome and shadowy façade of the British Museum loomed ahead. Pale brick faces of well-cared-for row houses glowed with curtained windows, and even Great Russell Street was almost empty of foot traffic. She turned into a narrow lane that looked as if it led to Bloomsbury Square. But it was, she knew, a cul-de-sac with a certain garden-level address Julie had visited with all the excitement and eagerness of an answering heart. Past silent homes with an occasional “to let” notice—no emotion at all now, no sense of yearning—she walked swiftly back to the corner. The man stood motionless beside a mushroom-shaped letter drop whose red color was almost lost in the dim light.
“Why don’t you ask me what you want instead of following me?”
“Sorry, miss?”
“You’ve been following me. Why?”
“Haven’t any such thing! I live just down the street here. Just stepped out to post a letter.”
“Which way down the street?”
“Right down there, if it’s any of your business, miss.”
“You’ve made it my business by following me. If I see you behind me once more, I will call a policeman.”
“You haven’t seen me behind you at all!”
Julie stepped quickly toward the young man and saw the start of angry fear in his eyes; it was the look of something cornered and on the edge of being dangerous. “The New Roses pub, Russell Square Station, and here. As bad as you are at this, you ought to go into another line of work.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Leave off, now—I mean it!” His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, and Julie, wary, watched his eyes and waited for that instant when a weapon would be pulled.
But he only backed away. “You’re crazy, is what you are! Think this is America? I haven’t been following anybody!”
“Next time, the police.” She wa
lked into the darkness between two streetlamps Behind her, a voice throaty with anger muttered, “Bloody bitch!”
X
The Aurora Victorious trembled from the power of its engines as it steamed slowly up the Gulf. Night had come, so humid and thick that Raiford could almost chew it. But the heat did not lessen. Like eruptions from hell, an oil field’s burning gas vents flared hotly somewhere in the blackness.
First Mate Pressler introduced Raiford to the officers gathered in the dining saloon for the evening meal—“This is Pierce’s stand-in. Name of Raiford.” Scarcely breaking stride to nod, the dozen men gulped their food in near silence. Then half of them disappeared without a word. The rest, belching with the haste of eating, and picking their teeth with the satisfaction of being finished, moved into the wardroom for coffee or a drink so the fast-working steward could clean the saloon.
Third Officer Li smiled at Raiford and waved a hand toward the bar. “Help yourself to drink—please to sign chit for what you take. Honor system.” Scheduled for bridge duty in half an hour, Li sipped a heavy mug of coffee. “You find cabin okay? Know ship now?”
Raiford nodded, “Somewhat,” and sank into a heavily padded armchair beside the Chinese officer.
One of the engineering officers—Graham Hansford—came over, drink in hand, and dropped into another chair. “Getting settled in, are you?”
“It’s still a bit strange. But I’m comfortable, thanks.” Raiford asked Li, “Can anyone use that ship-to-shore phone? I’d like to call home and tell them I arrived all right.” As directed, he had e-mailed Stanley Mack just before boarding the ship’s launch. But Julie should be called, too, and his cell phone had fallen mute.
“Oh, yes. You buy a calling card from purser—fifty dollars for two hundred units. Very expensive. Satellite relay.”
Hansford nodded. “Two hundred units translates into about fifteen minutes. Cheaper than the six dollars a minute without one, but you’ll want to use off-peak hours even with a card. For the Indian Ocean region, that’s 03:30 to 07:30, Greenwich time.” He added, “The ship’s e-mail is fifty cents a kilobyte. Use Pierce’s account number—you’ll get billed when you leave ship. E-mails queue up and transfer out three times a day at off-peak hours: 07:35, 19:35, 23:35 GMT. There’s fax, too—six dollars a page, whether it goes through or not.”