by Rex Burns
Mack’s information filled in one of the suspicions given birth by the e-mail Julie had received. And she provided additional information uncovered by Audrey Bennett: “Olivia Minkey—she’s the widow of the captain of the Golden Dawn—bought a very nice finca in Rio. For cash. She also paid cash for her new furnishings, hired a household staff, stocked up supplies, bought a new Mercedes, new clothes. All cash.”
“More than her husband’s life insurance can account for?” asked Mack.
Julie smiled. “His policy, taken out six weeks before the Golden Dawn was lost, paid one hundred fifty thousand pounds. Audrey’s contact in Rio estimates her expenses so far at around three hundred thousand dollars. That doesn’t leave her much to live on unless she has a lot of other income.” Julie added, “But then she also has a new bank account in the Bahamas. Couldn’t get access to that, though. And the household staff say she’s expecting her husband to join her in Rio in a few weeks.”
“Her husband? But …” The weariness disappeared and Mack’s eyes looked alert. “That’s our pirate ship—the Golden Dawn!”
Julie nodded. “The widow is not a widow. Her husband’s now the pirate captain of the Stormy Petrol.”
Mack closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “It fits, by God. It fits!” Then, “Anything new from the Aurora?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ve been worried about that.” His closed eyes frowned. “Wasn’t much else to occupy my mind on the flight and I was too wired to sleep. But maybe there’s something we can do from this end. New York promised that London will fully and promptly cooperate. Whatever we need, it’s ours.”
“What can we do and how fast?”
The bloodshot eyes opened to study Julie’s taut expression. “Yeah: what and how soon—that’s what I’ve been worrying about.”
XXVII
It was eleven forty-five. Raiford had heard nothing of a helicopter’s pending arrival. Peeking through the closed drapes of Woody’s window onto the gallery, he could see only two portholes of gray sky. The distant horizon that occasionally rose up into the holes showed that the sea, too, was gray. The monsoon had died out, the Aurora had dropped below the southern trades and their generally fair seas, and now it was well into the colder waters near the South African cape. Overcast and windy, but not—he fervently hoped—enough to keep the helicopter from making its flight. Because he was definitely not going back down into that cramped and stifling roach hotel.
A soft scratching on the door and Raiford cracked it open to show a very nervous Woody. “You ready now, Mr. Raifah? Go aft. Charley waits for you at the stack-housing ladder.”
The gallery curved with the ship’s hull and Raiford strode quickly past the windows of the crew’s quarters to the ladder aft. As he neared it, Charley’s grinning face popped down from the overhead hatch. “This way—hurry, sah!”
Raiford, camera strap around his wrist, followed the sprinting man across the main deck and through the entry to the stack housing. There, Charley motioned for silence and disappeared up another ladder. Then an arm beckoned and Raiford went up to find a small corridor flanked by locked doors. Metal plates identified the ship’s store, two double-locked reefers, and the laundry facility. Charley fitted a key into a door that said POOL MAINTENANCE and fumbled with the lock. It seemed to take a long time, and Raiford was increasingly aware of voices floating up from the main deck, of sounds of life from the bridge forward. Finally the door clicked open.
“Okay, sah! When helicopter comes, you can run forward from here, yes? And I find for you a hiding spot.” Charley pointed to the bulge of the swimming pool tank that pressed through the ceiling almost to the floor. “You go under there, okay?”
“I can’t fit under there, Charley. I’m too big!”
The man looked up and down Raiford’s torso. “Too big, yes.” He scratched at his cropped black hair. “Okay—stay here. If somebody comes, then you get a lot smaller real fast, yes? Go under there.”
“I guess it could happen.”
The room was close and narrow, filled by the belly of the metal pool, and had no portholes. The water pump and filter assembly crowded one corner, and in another a cabinet held plastic buckets of pool chemicals and a few maintenance tools. The only sounds were the whine of the water pump and, beneath that, the ship’s forced air system. Deepest of all, the flue going up the neighboring stack gave off a visceral rumble, its hot exhaust used to warm the swimming pool’s water. This seldom-used space did not have a Tannoy, so Raiford could not hear the ship’s bell, the noon announcements of distance traveled in the last twenty-four hours, or any special duty assignments or pages from the bridge. He did near the metallic scrape of a key in the door and moved quickly behind it as it opened.
“Mr. Raifah—Mr. … Aii!” Charley gaped over his shoulder at the big shape poised for attack. “It’s me!”
“Has it come?”
“Tannoy says ten minutes. Comes at thirteen twenty. We go now.”
Raiford could hear the ship’s speaker echo in the passageway, “All hands stand clear the forward deck. Helicopter arriving in five minutes. All hands stand clear the forward deck.”
This time Charley led down an internal ladder into the engine decks, then forward through the boiler room and past the ship’s generators. At another ladder, Charley went up cautiously. Once more the arm beckoned and Raiford followed to the corridor that ran past the crew’s galley on the main deck.
Ears alert, they waited for the sound of the helicopter’s popping exhaust. Raiford wasn’t certain just what he’d tell the pilot when he sprinted down the long deck and tumbled aboard the chopper. But the pilot should be expecting him. The mail, a case of new movies, and Pierce were coming aboard; going out would be the mail, the old movies, and, Raiford fervently hoped, Pierce’s temporary replacement. The catch would be when Pressler began shooting. He would have to wait until the helicopter cleared the ship—a stray bullet, a crash aboard ship, any spark near the oil manifold could set the Aurora ablaze. But Raiford had no doubt that Pressler would shoot if he could—the helicopter and all aboard it were far less valuable than the stolen oil, and a helicopter crash at sea was not uncommon. Raiford would have to make the pilot understand that danger, and do it the moment he was aboard.
Still no sound of airborne engines.
“Charley, you go on back to work. You don’t have to wait here with me.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay. If the first mate sees you with me, you’re in big trouble. Go on, now—I can handle it from here.”
“Okay—I go. Thank you, Mr. Raifah, yes? Good luck, yes?”
“Thanks, Charley. And keep your head down.”
The grinning man disappeared. Raiford listened tensely at the doorway and searched the sky.
Until he heard a shout, “There he is!”
Shockley, standing in the doorway at the other end of the corridor, shouted again to someone aft. “Starboard side, main deck. It’s him!”
Raiford, stuffing the camera safely inside his shirt, sprinted for the stairway only to see the startled face of a sailor below him who yelled something in Chinese. An instant later, the chief steward and the Korean, Yun Hyon, ran toward the foot of the stairs. Raiford turned upstairs, his long legs taking three steps at a time. Up past the junior officers’ level and still up. How he’d manage to get down when the chopper came, he wasn’t sure. But he was damned certain he heard the thud of a dozen feet after him and the savagely happy bellow of Pressler, “Get the barstid! Get him, goddamn your eyes—get him!”
Raiford burst through the double doors of the navigation bridge and into the shocked faces of the radioman, the duty helmsman, and Captain Boggs, who, without a word, lunged at Raiford. Twisting away from the captain’s flailing arm, Raiford chopped his hand into the man’s neck. The captain grunted and fell to a knee, clutching his th
roat. The radioman, shaking his head no, backed up with his hands raised in surrender and stumbled over the helmsman who tried to hold the wheel steady even as he cowered against the bridge’s console.
Raiford’s eye lit on the emergency cabinet mounted on the aft bulkhead and he dug his fingers under the metal lip of its locked door. Straining until his shirt seam crackled across his shoulders, he peeled back its metal door and grabbed the Very pistol and a box of shells and sprinted for the ladder up the mast. He was halfway up to the radar scanner when Pressler, pistol in hand, ran onto the open deck below.
“Raiford, goddamn you!”
The first mate leveled his weapon and it popped twice. The puffs of smoke blew quickly away in the strong wind. Raiford heard one bullet sizzle hotly somewhere near his left ear as he flung himself up the last few rungs and onto the small platform high above the bridge. Swiveling open the flare gun, he clicked it shut and quickly fired a round high into the gray sky. Its trail arced up and up to burst in a bright pink flare that smoked and danced as it drifted back toward the gray and wind-chopped ocean.
“Won’t do you any good, Raiford. The helicopter’s not coming—there is no helicopter!” Another shot punctuated the mate’s triumphant yell. “A trick to smoke you out, you barstid!”
“You hear me, Pressler? You hear me?”
“Say what you want to now, damn your eyes, because you are a dead man. I swear by God almighty you are already dead!”
“If I’m dead, you will be too, Pressler. I’ll shoot this flare at the oil manifold. I’ll send this bucket up like a firecracker!”
The empty whistle of the wind told Raiford that the man heard his threat.
“I’ve got nothing to lose, Pressler. I’ll take you with me!”
“Goddamn—!” Another shot smacked into the metal of the platform and ricocheted off somewhere with a nasal scream.
“Hold it, Pressler—wait!” Shockley’s voice cut through the wind. Raiford eased to the edge of the platform and peeked over. The second mate leaned out of the doorway to the flying bridge. “Wait, damn it—he’ll do it. He’ll kill us all!”
“That bloody flare gun won’t—”
“It might! For God’s sake, Pressler, he could spark the hose connections. It’s too big a chance.” The voice dropped and Shockley, glancing up at the crow’s nest, gestured something. Raiford heard the angry snarl of vague, wind-tossed voices. Then Pressler strode to the weather door of the bridge and out of sight. Shockley, shoulders sagging with the weight of his dangling arms, stared up at Raiford. A moment later, a half-dozen men were herded by a screaming Pressler onto the open bridge.
“Up! Goddamn you—get up that ladder and bring him down now!”
The crewmen hung back. Pressler’s wide fist grabbed Yun Hyon’s neck and drove him like a rag doll to the ladder rungs. “Up!” Pressler waved the pistol. “If he shows his goddamn face, I’ll kill him! Up, damn you!”
A few seconds later, Raiford felt the mast quiver as feet climbed slowly. It was stupid of Pressler. Raiford waited. Three fingers of a hand gingerly grasped the edge of the hatchway. Raiford waited. Then the other hand felt for a grip. Raiford waited. Two, three breaths—even Pressler stopped shouting. Then the mast quivered again as Yun lunged upward through the hole in the floor of the crow’s nest and Raiford kicked out. His heel caught the side of the man’s head to smack it hard against the steel rim of the hatchway, and then Raiford’s heel smashed down on the slipping, straining fingers until they yanked out of sight. Raiford felt snagging tingles as the man plummeted along the mast, and then he heard the thud of flesh hitting steel below.
“Send up another one, Pressler!”
No answer.
Raiford scooted to the platform edge and peered cautiously over. Four sailors were dragging Yun’s broken body into the navigation bridge. Pressler, pistol at his thigh, looked up.
“All right, you barstid. You stay there. You can’t come down or I’ll kill you. You stay up there and rot, goddamn your soul. You’ll beg me to shoot you, goddamn you. There’ll be no water, there’ll be no food, damn you—you’ll beg me to put you out of your misery!”
XXVIII
November darkness comes early to London. Through the large, square windows of the fourth-floor office of Marine Carriers’s London branch, Julie could see the glare of traffic and streetlamps glowing upward into the misty drizzle. Beside her at the large oval table that almost filled the spartan room, Mack—still partially on New York time—nodded affirmative to Lord Fensley’s question. “Yes, I made the copy of the Rossi file myself. I can testify that it’s true and complete. And the description of the Stormy Petrol sent by Mr. Raiford certainly fits that of the Golden Dawn.”
Lord Fensley, the company’s senior solicitor in London, wanted to be legally certain that the discovery of Boggs’s theft and the Stormy Petrol’s history, would withstand any challenge by the defendants. Probable cause as a requirement for a legal search was a concept relatively new to British law, still undergoing definition, and an opposing counsel would certainly make use of all ambiguities. But Fensley saw the investigation into Rossi’s death as a solid foundation to introduce—to Marine Carriers—the more important issue of motive for that death: insurance fraud and grand larceny. “I believe we can get by with your deposition, Miss Campbell.” The man smiled warmly at her, the neat wings of his gray mustache lifting over prominent eyeteeth. “That way you need not appear in court in person.”
And, Julie knew, it would also save Marine Carriers the expense of supporting a witness for a necessary though minor step in establishing the groundwork for a legal argument. She rubbed fingertips into her burning eyes and glanced one more time at her watch: three eighteen.
Mack, looking at his own watch, shifted wearily. He’d had no time to rest after his flight, and his face’s gray flesh and day-old stubble showed it. “Can you call your contact in the Home Office again, Lord Fensley?” His finger tapped one of the many copies that had been made of Raiford’s message to Julie. “Time—”
“… is of the essence, Mr. Mack. I fully agree. I made that quite clear to our—ah—contact, as you term him. I assure you, he understands and my badgering won’t contribute anything other than irritation.” His smile at Mack wasn’t quite as warm.
“Can he do it?” Julie asked.
“I see no legal impediment, my dear. There are clearly established precedents in both national and international law. The substantive issues are coordination and logistics, aren’t they? But we won’t know his success until he informs us.” He reassured her in a warm tone, “We’ve known each other since King’s, and I have the utmost confidence in him, Miss Campbell. I’m equally certain your associate is faring well. He seems a most resourceful fellow—sending e-mail through a reserve modem—quite ingenious. I should like to meet him.” He, too, tapped the copy of Raiford’s message. “Damned fine work, that. Now”—he rubbed his slender hands together with a dry, brisk whisper—“it looks as though we could all use a bit of refreshment. I’ll have some biscuits and sherry brought up. Do you prefer dry or sweet, Miss Campbell?”
XXIX
Raiford stared up at the gray clouds scudding overhead. He was almost beyond feeling the wind, now. The skin on his arms was taut and cold and stiff as marble. Once more he tried to relax his back muscles to control the spasms of shuddering that rattled his heels against the icy steel of the crow’s nest. He must have slept sometime during the long, long night, though he could not remember anything but cold and the occasional gouge of the digital camera stowed in his shirt. Sunset had been a slow ebbing of gray light, and sunrise came just as dull and lifeless. It might have looked this gloomy to Alfred. Raiford hoped not. He hoped that Alfred at least had clear skies for his death. But Alfred, too, would have been thirsty. Very thirsty. Thirstier than he’d ever been in his life. Or would be. Certainly Raiford was thirsty. Thirsty enough to mutt
er curses when Pressler, at early dawn, came out to the flying wing to call his name and toast him with a mug of steaming coffee.
Cold, too. Cold enough that bending his joints was an aching effort, and his hands—puffy and thick—did not want to close. But he would have to keep his mind off being thirsty and to ignore the cottony feeling in his mouth that made his tongue stick to his palate.
His lips twitched in a tight grin at the vision of Pressler lifting the steaming mug. “Oy—Raiford—to your health, man! A healthy but short life to you!” It was kind of funny. But it would be a lot funnier if it was the other way around.
Pressler had outsmarted him with the false announcement about the helicopter. He lured Raiford out and then swept the ship to nab him. Give the toad his credit. It was a trick Raiford would remember the next time he tried to escape from an oil tanker. Never go in alone; never go in blind. Well, he had, and here he was.
His dry, gummy swallowing was loud in his ears as he watched the bellies of the low, gray clouds sail overhead. Brighter, now. And maybe it was his imagination, but it felt a little warmer. Thank God it had not rained during the night. But a rain could slake his thirst, which he was not going to think about.
Below, staring up at him, an armed sailor stood guard. Probably Sung Ching—one of the crew that Pressler could trust. Maybe the one who had been with Alfred. And wouldn’t it warm Raiford’s heart to hear him bounce down the mast like Yun!
He would have to go down sooner or later. Pressler was right about that. He couldn’t last much longer up here without getting hypothermic or delirious. Thirsty and very cold. Stiff. But as soon as he put a leg through the hatchway, Sung would sing. Might make it through one more day if the clouds kept the sun off. Last until dark, maybe. But Pressler would keep watch through the night, too. People he trusted. Sung. Shockley. Even Boggs, if necessary. Last night they had aimed the ship’s starboard spotlight on the crow’s nest, and all night Raiford had lain huddled from the wind and watched the radar screen just over his head flash in and out of the glare. It turned between four and five times a minute. Close to three hundred rotations an hour. Raiford had timed them. Shifting between imagined conversations with Julie and watching the radar screen. Flickering rotations as long as he could concentrate. Days as far back as he could remember. A summation of all his days. And to know that this cold, gray dawn could be his last.