Out in the harbor, the Japanese ship was still at anchor. It was small and rugged, riding high in the water. She stopped a moment to look at it. No, she decided. You didn’t come all this way just to piss off a cancer patient.
Back in her room she got her binoculars and stood at the window, working to focus the lens. A glittery blur turned into the small ship. Something like pennants hung from lines on the superstructure. Smoke trailed from the single stack; bilge water jetted above the waterline. Crewmembers were on deck.
Higher up, two men stood outside what must be the wheelhouse. Brenda straddled her legs to steady the lens. They were facing away and talking, looking out to sea. She scanned the ship, seeing hanging baskets, a tarp rigged for shade. When she again focused on the two men, she recognized the shape of his back, his red hair. The sales rep.
“Robert Ehrlich.”
She watched him talking, the other man a Japanese. Ehrlich was wearing white shorts and a blue short-sleeved shirt. She watched as he came down the steps, crossed the deck and quickly disappeared down more stairs.
“What are you doing, Bob?” Brenda kept the lens trained on the opening. Lars Nohr had said no one on board was allowed ashore. Legal matters, health restrictions, permits. But in those few seconds on deck, Robert Ehrlich had moved with confidence. He had come down from the wheelhouse like an owner, not a tourist.
◆◆◆◆◆
At lunch, she asked Mrs. Yamata to arrange for a boat to take her out to the Nauro Maru. Back up in her room, she chose fresh clothes for compatibility with Robert Ehrlich—boat shoes, khaki shorts, a navy polo. Like brother and sister, Brenda thought, looking at herself in the dresser mirror. Flatter him. Offer to buy an Evinrude if he’ll help you.
A taxi took her down to the wharf. Her boat driver held his runabout close to the dock and helped her down, then went to the stern to check the motors. She had brought her binoculars and the camcorder, props meant to support a tourist image.
Minutes later, they were planing toward the jetty at the end of the airstrip. They rounded it, and there was the tuna trawler. Brenda stood up front and taped. The motors whined. Crew members appeared at the railing, and then the captain or first mate came from the wheelhouse. Shouting orders, he hurried down the steps. Through the camcorder’s viewfinder, she saw the crew standing away from the rail, tucking in shirts.
The driver maneuvered alongside, grabbing a line as an iron ladder slipped down the ship’s side. Brenda shouldered her bag and grabbed hold of the ladder, then hauled herself up. The rail gate swung open, and she managed the last step with help from a crewman.
As she straightened, the captain came forward. Unshaved, small, dressed in a stained khaki uniform, he looked uncomfortable. What she thought must be the first mate stepped to his side. Brenda towered above them.
“This Captain Tishura Ibachi,” the mate said. “You come from Pohnpei government? We break no rules, no trouble.”
“My name is Brenda Contay. I’d like to speak with your passenger.”
The mate translated in a soft rush. Eyes on her, Ibachi answered. “Captain say no trouble in Pohnpei. Say we leave at high tide. High tide we leave, no trouble.”
“Where are you going?”
Once translated, her question seemed to cause confusion. The captain looked to the steps leading below. He said something, shook his head. “Is there a problem telling me where you’re going?” she asked politely.
Then it registered, caught up to her in the seconds after their exchange in Japanese. “Pirim? Is that what you said? Pirim atoll?”
Ibachi looked alarmed. The mate said something to him and Brenda pressed, “Is that where you’re going, captain? Pirim atoll?”
Ibachi spoke two or three more words. The mate bowed and went to the steps leading below. Brenda saw they were nervous, anticipating trouble. If they refused her, she would threaten an inquiry. Accuse them of running drugs, weapons—
As she got her story straight, the first mate stepped back on deck. Behind him was the manufacturer’s rep.
“So, Mr. Ehrlich.” Brenda smiled as he stood at the top of the steps staring at her. “Hitching a ride to do some business?”
He crossed the deck and looked down at the boat taxi. “Good,” he said. “Get back down right now. You’re returning to Pohnpei.”
“What’s the problem?”
“You’re getting off this ship and going back. Now.”
“These men say they’re going to Pirim. I need to get there. Why not give me a lift?”
He stared at her and shook his head. “A lift,” he said. “Just like that, give you a lift.”
“If they’re taking you, why not me?”
“No, that’s it, you’re going back—”
“You cut a deal to go to the outer islands,” she said. “Fine. I’m no competitor, how can it matter? I won’t be in the way. I’d use the district ship, but it’s not running.”
“We aren’t going to Pirim,” he said. “Why would we? What business would we have there?”
“’We,’” she said. “Who’s ‘we’?”
He looked to the captain and mate. Both were standing up the deck’s slope toward the bow. They’re waiting for orders, she thought. He didn’t just row out and schmooze a lift. This is his show, they work for him.
“This is your boat, isn’t it?” she said. “They’re here because you’re here.”
In answer, Ehrlich reached over and grabbed the bag hanging from her shoulder. He yanked it open, pulled out the recorder, removed the cassette and threw it over the side. He closed the camera, dropped it in the bag and motioned to the ladder.
“Please,” he said. “I’m sorry, but we haven’t got facilities for more passengers.”
“Why did you do that?”
“You’re a reporter. We don’t need competitors knowing we’re out here.”
He took her elbow, but she twisted free. “Who said I was a reporter?”
“Come on, that’s it—” He reached again.
Brenda jerked away. “You sexist pig. Where do you get off touching me without permission? Once more and I’ll have you up on charges. If you want publicity, I can get you more than you will ever be able to manage.”
She didn’t use it often, but with white-collar types this threat almost always worked. Ehrlich sighed. “Look, we can’t help you,” he said. “Insurance wouldn’t cover it, we’d be liable. If we could, you have my promise we would.”
“Would what?”
“Take you to Pirim.”
“Why? You aren’t going to Pirim.”
“If we were going there.”
“Is this how you peddle outboard motors?” she said. “Jerk people around? Destroy property? Does it work?”
“I’m not jerking anyone. I’m making a request anyone can see is reasonable.”
“Even a woman? What if you’re wrong? What if I’m a real bitch and ask the Pohnpei police to charge you with assault?”
“You do that.” Very firmly this time he took her elbow.
She let him. At the railing gate he let go. Slowly she shouldered her bag, then the binoculars, to gain time. “Okay, I’ll go.”
He unhooked the gate and held it open. Brenda looked at the captain and mate, the crew. All of them seemed worried about what was taking place.
“I’m waiting on you,” Ehrlich said.
She looked back at him. He’d thrown the cassette hard, not so much to clear the ship as to assure it was destroyed. He wasn’t worried about competitors. “So you know,” she said, “I have you on tape.”
“Did, maybe. Not now.”
“I’m talking about the Honolulu airport.”
Ehrlich looked to the stern and rubbed his sweaty scalp. Like her, he had light skin all wrong for the climate, and red hair, cut short. “You’re saying you taped me,” he said.
“Correct—” She held up the bag. “I mailed the cassette before we left.”
He looked at her. “Why?”
&
nbsp; “Color,” she said. “Filler. I’m in television, it’s what I do. You kept checking me out, so I taped you and mailed it home.”
It wasn’t true, but Ehrlich took in these words with great care. “Where?”
“To my station in Detroit.”
“You had no right.”
“True,” she said. “Sue me.”
The first mate had been conferring with the captain and now stepped forward. “High tide,” he said. “Prepare for sailing.”
Ehrlich nodded and looked toward the shore, rubbing his head.
“What do you say, Mr. Ehrlich?”
“You don’t have any clothes.”
Her stomach gave a little jump, he was changing his mind. “I’ll go back and get some.”
“No.” He shook his head. “That’s out.”
“Why? We have time.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” he said, angry now. “Don’t tell me we have time.”
“Fine. My boat driver can go back and bring out my bag.”
Before he could answer, Brenda looked down. She pointed to the shore and her hotel, called instructions, pointed to her blouse. The driver listened and nodded, smiling up at her as he untied the bowline and pushed free. Seconds later, the runabout was planing toward shore.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 6
WESTBOUND I-94
7:50 A.M.
“The profit-sharing’s really great,” Song said. “Neff owns or controls thirty-nine firms. They base profits on the aggregate earnings for all thirty-nine, so there’s always something. With that many sources of income, it’s almost like an index stock fund. Some do better than others in a given year, but overall, you never lose out.”
He signaled and eased the van left to pass a motor home.
“Then there’s your stock savings program,” he continued. “For every dollar you invest, the company matches it. Pension reduces taxable income, of course. And the women love the flex-spending accounts.”
“What’s that?” Lindbergh got his coffee from the van’s cup holder.
“They’re set-asides,” Song told him. “Pre-tax dollars for child care and out-of-pocket deductibles on your medical expenses and prescription co-pays. Say you can estimate what your annual cost for those will be. The flex account allows for further reduction in taxable income.”
“I get it.”
“The expense account is unbeatable…”
Lindbergh had left Baton Rouge on Monday, flown to Chicago and checked into the airport hotel to wait for further instructions. On Tuesday night, the casino contact who had arranged the assignment called from Reno. Something happened, he said. You aren’t done. Lindbergh was to fly back to Detroit, and take a cab to the Marriott in Southfield. There, he was to contact someone named Freddy Song. The two were to drive to Milwaukee, dispose of a van, and go their separate ways.
Scared and very glad to see him, Song had removed serial tags from his computer, printer and listening devices. They had broken everything up before leaving, throwing it in the Dumpster behind a Great Scott supermarket. He didn’t say why, but it was easy to fill in the blanks. Song had learned about Caprice Thibodeau. Without explaining, he kept talking about going public, getting ahead of the information curve.
They were now outside Gary, Indiana. Sprawling in all directions, the once-thriving steel town’s huge plants and warehouses lay in oxidized decay. Burn-off stacks from cracking plants flared blue and orange against the morning sky. In front of the van, a Trailways bus signaled right.
“Too much coffee,” Lindbergh said. “Let’s gas up and take a pee. I’ll drive to Milwaukee.”
“Good, I’m hungry.”
They followed the bus and took the exit. The road divided, trucks right, cars and buses straight. They followed the Trailways until it braked opposite the restaurant. Song passed it and eased to a stop under one of the fuel-pump shelters.
“I’ll get it,” Lindbergh said. “You go on in.”
He waited for Song to get out before he swung down and stepped around the van. He opened the gas flap, unscrewed the cap and inserted the nozzle. “Nothing for me,” he called. “I’ll park and wait for you.”
Amazing, he thought as the counters started rolling. Transportation allowances, bonuses. Or options, Song had said. Say you have strong reason to think one of the thirty-nine Neff holdings has something coming on-line in the next few years. Something that’s going to make the share price take off. That seemed to be what Song thought would happen with GENE 2. In that case, you took your bonus as a future at the current share price. When, say, a new drug was finally approved by the FDA and the stock jumped, you could buy it for peanuts at the old price.
All of which was great in itself, Song said, but even without the extras, Neff was a super place to work. Great people, all kinds of support. Mentoring plans and tuition reimbursements for advanced degrees. Summer management seminars at Harvard. All you have to do is want it, Song told him. Work hard, and good things happen. He was part of some circle of young employees known as Minot’s Marines, fast-trackers who had demonstrated special gifts and promise. Song thought of it in terms of family, a clan within the clan.
Lindbergh watched as Song entered the restaurant. A minute later, the pump shut off. He hung it up, paid cash at the kiosk, and then jogged to where the Trailways bus stood aimed for the west on-ramp. The driver was waiting for passengers to re-board. Lindbergh pulled himself up the step.
“Any room?”
“Plenty.”
“We’re driving to Milwaukee,” he said. “Everything’s fine, we’re talking about the kids. We pull in here, I get out, close the door. The wife slides behind the wheel. She holds up the phone bill, she asks ‘Who the hell is Nadine?’ What do you think she does next?”
The driver shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe how often it happens.”
“The luggage, my golf clubs. Everything but my wallet.”
“Just so you have that,” the driver said. “Hustle if you’re going, I’m running late. We’ll leave in five minutes.”
Lindbergh waved and got off. He trotted behind the bus and ran back to the van, hopped in and swung it around the pump islands. He parked in the lot, checking that he was not visible from the bus driver’s rearview mirror.
The van had been equipped for Song’s use as a workstation, with a table and chair fitted in back. Helping Song load his things at the Marriott, Lindbergh had seen holes drilled in the floor, just above the fuel tank. When Song had gone back in for his garment bag, Lindbergh had removed a seat bolt and shoved the chair off its mark. Through the opening, he had used a screwdriver to punch a hole in the tank.
Careful and prudent, Song kept a one-gallon emergency gas can wedged over one of the rear wheel wells. Lindbergh pulled it free, unscrewed the cap and emptied it on the van’s carpet, soaking the area around the hole.
The point was vapor. Nothing in his own bag bore a name or laundry mark. He slipped Song’s briefcase from under the work station and opened it. The casino contact had told him Song would have a report on someone named Brenda Contay. He found it in the case’s cover pouch, pulled it out, flipped through the remaining material and removed everything bearing corporate identification—pens, paper, a calculator and three annual reports for Neff subsidiaries. Also a second set of car keys.
Lindbergh gathered his suit coat to one side and shoved the reports down his back. He pocketed the calculator and pens before tossing the spare set of keys under the driver’s seat.
A minute later, Song stepped from the restaurant entrance carrying a cardboard tray. He looked to the left, saw the van and headed over.
Lindbergh checked his watch, then reached under the passenger seat for his Remington Microshave, placed there during the coffee stop outside Battle Creek. Setting it on the console between the seats, he plugged the travel connector into the van’s cigar lighter, took the keys from the ignition, stepped out and slammed the door.
“Don’t light a match in
there,” he called, walking toward Song. “When we stopped, the gas can fell off the wheel well. I’ll bring some towels.”
Song shook his head as they passed. Ahead, passengers were boarding the bus. Lindbergh judged it to be sixty feet from the van. Within range. He hurried.
Reaching the bus, he glanced back. Song was sitting in the passenger seat of the van. Lindbergh swung up into the bus, saw the last row was empty and walked to the back.
Hands in his pockets, he stood at the rear window, watching the van until the bus’s pneumatic door closed. The airbrakes sighed. As the bus moved forward, he thumbed the van’s keychain and pushed the keyless-entry LOCK button.
The van exploded. We’re running late—the bus driver’s words. Even if he saw fire, he’d keep going. If he didn’t—
The bus accelerated toward the exit as the locked van’s windows bloomed with flame. Lindbergh turned away and sat, feeling the stiff reports at his back.
Once he had loosened up, Song had asked whether Lindbergh knew the woman in Phoenix. No? I think I do, Song said. From her voice. She has a slight accent, Scottish or Irish. It must be Betsy McIntosh, GENE 2 Public Relations. She ran the Aspen conference two years ago. A hell of a woman. Beautiful, classy, full of ideas. You’d like her.
They had put her in Ehrlich’s cabin. At dusk, Brenda felt the trawler’s engines begin to thud.
Minutes later, the anchor chain screeched up the bow. Through the open porthole, she saw they were moving toward the barrier reef. It was stifling in the cabin, but she felt elated. When the trawler at last nosed past the channel lights into open sea, she danced a jig.
Her cabin was no-nonsense, with thick, bolted portholes swinging on hinges, fitted and sealed for heavy weather. Typhoons in the Pacific, hurricanes in the Atlantic. The only ship experience she’d had was with her mother and brother, on a Celebrity cruise to Bermuda.
It had been a sad trip. Seventeen, and surrounded by retirees. Morris had been thirteen. He played video games, and she had slept with a lounge-act drummer in an empty cabin while her mother smoked in the Taverna lounge.
Brenda locked the cabin door. She knew nothing about Ehrlich except that he had lied to her. He wasn’t selling outboard motors, and he was going to Pirim. Lars Nohr had said nothing about passengers on the trawler, and she wondered if the two somehow worked together.
The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1) Page 7