Cooks Overboard

by Joanne Pence

  At one table, a woman fanned herself with a round, palm-leaf-shaped fan with a bamboo handle. It didn’t help. The three men with her looked equally miserable. None of them spoke.

  The woman sipped her sangria, the men their beers. A plate of buñuelos sat in the center of the table, uneaten, a victim of the hot, miserable weather. Three colorfully dressed street musicians circled their table and began wildly strumming their guitars.

  The American, George Gresham, cringed. He recognized the musical introduction. The whole world probably recognized that introduction. He gritted his teeth and tried not to look too pained.

  Sure enough, the loud, slightly off-key strains of “La Bamba” began to fill the air, and all the other customers’ eyes turned to the four of them. To Gresham’s horror, Grundil Duchievor was smiling at the musicians and rocking her head as if she was enjoying it. When they began the “Ba-ba-bamba” chorus, in voices louder than he thought humanly possible, he fished in his pockets for some money and practically threw it into the hands of one of the men.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” the man said. When they didn’t leave, George stood up. “Gracias and good-bye.”

  The lead musician nodded and walked off, singing as he went. The others followed.

  Grundil lifted one eyebrow and peered coldly at George. A tall, thin woman with sharply angled cheekbones, she rapped a pack of Gauloises against her forefinger. “Vhy did you send them avay, George?” she asked. Her voice was deep, almost masculine. She freed one of the unfiltered cigarettes.

  “Why not? Why would we want them singing Richie Valens to us?” he asked.

  “I liked it, ” she said, lifting her head imperiously, her pencil-sharp nose pointing toward the street, carefully eyeing the passers-by. Somewhere in her forties, she was tall and slinky, with hazel eyes, black eyebrows penciled to wing up and outward, and straight, jet-black hair worn in a chin-length blunt cut with deep, straight bangs. Her long fingers, tipped by square-cut unmanicured nails, held her cigarette at a rigid angle while she lit it. Inhaling deeply, she tossed back her head and harshly blew a long plume of smoke into the air.

  “At least it’s better than ‘Guantanamera,’” said her husband, Béla. A short, pudgy man, he had thinning black hair and large, protruding black eyes. His voice, high and nasal, was the complete opposite of his wife’s.

  George decided he’d have to think about that possibility.

  Whenever a new group of foreign tourists sat down, the musicians surrounded them and sang “La Bamba” again. George lost count after about the eighth time, glad there was nothing handy that was sharp and could fit in his ear.

  No one at the table spoke. Not him, or Grundil Duchievor, or her husband, Béla. And especially not Shawn MacDougall.

  George looked at the fourth man in their party, stiff and formal, dressed in a V-necked blue sweater, white shirt, red bow tie, gray slacks, slick-soled black moccasins, and binoculars around his neck. It’s amazing he didn’t pass out in the heat.

  Shawn was Chinese. Somehow, someone in the Chinese embassy in Beijing had screwed up royally when putting together a phony foreign passport for the guy, back during the last days of the cold war, when things like that were common and the Chinese weren’t the heavy players they were now. They weren’t nearly as sophisticated in their espionage back then, and George figured some poor clerk was just pulling out Western-style names, trying to anglicize the Chinese spy’s real name—Xian Mah-dong. What he evidently hadn’t understood was that there was a big difference between anglicizing a name and Scotticizing it.

  MacDougall had been stuck with the ridiculous moniker ever since.

  Not that it mattered anymore. Hell, nothing any of them did mattered anymore. The cold war was over and they were has-beens. George was a has-been at only fifty-five. He had plenty of years left, too. Good years. But what with downsizing in the spy industry…and those few who were left had to know all that high-tech garbage. Give him the good old days! The John le Carré days, when being a spy meant you were tough, a man alone—a modern-day cowboy doing good, fighting evil.

  He batted away a fly.

  Now being a spy meant you got involved in industrial espionage. How boring! He almost felt sorry for the young guys just entering the business. Almost.

  But the four of them—the not-so-old-timers—had once been good. More than good. Great. They used to have a lot of fun spying on each other, in fact. That was how they had met years ago, first in Berlin, then Prague, and finally a stint in Albania. That should have warned all of them that the end was near. Even the name Albania made him shudder.

  Then Shawn was bounced from his job, the Duchievors lost their government, and he’d been downsized into an early retirement.

  They’d found each other again in Mazatlán by chance, all looking for cheap housing in a warm climate. So they teamed up. It had seemed natural enough. Retirement and the end of wars made strange bedfellows.

  They had spent their careers sitting and watching. It’s what they were used to doing, liked doing, in fact. So they sat in cantinas much like this one and watched.

  “There—look at those two. The big bruiser and the dish who’s with him. What a babe,” George Gresham said, watching the people from the ship go through customs.

  Shawn MacDougall keyed into his personal organizer. The small, battery-operated computer was as high-tech as any of them were these days. “The records Grundil lifted from the harbormaster show them to be either Nellie and Marvin Neblar, Ruby and Harold Cockburn, or Angelina Amalfi and Paavo Smith.”

  “It’s the last two,” Grundil said. “He doesn’t treat her as if she vere a vife. He’s being too much the gentleman.”

  “But Grundil, I am alvays the gentleman vith you,” Béla said.

  She sneered, and continued watching. “Ah! Look. She is talking to a very handsome young man. He’s dressed in white—he must be the ship’s steward.”

  “But the guy she was with is sneaking away from them,” George said. “He’s heading for a phone booth. Whoa-ho-ho! Suspicious-city, USA! They’re the ones, gang.”

  “What could they be up to?” MacDougall mused.

  “They don’t look like the type to deal vith a dictator-vannabe,” Grundil said, squinting mightily. It wasn’t that her eyesight was going bad. It was the constant haze in Mazatlán—it made things hard to see sometimes. Especially if they were too far away or too close up. “Ortega never had the cojones to make a big man of himself.”

  “Maybe,” Béla said breathlessly, “vorking vith classy people like them, this time he vill. And ve vill find out about it and varn everyone. Then our reputations vill be restored.”

  “And if not,” George added, “we might at least find a way to get some money out of it so we can retire somewhere that’s not so hot or humid. Like, maybe Juneau.”

  25

  Paavo didn’t like the idea of leaving Angie at the lascivious mercy of Julio Rodriguez, but there were times, like now, when it was a lot easier than explaining to her what he was up to. He hurried to a pay phone and put in a call to his partner, Yoshiwara.

  “Paavo?” Yosh sounded shocked. “Hey, partner, good to hear from you. But aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy on a cruise?”

  Yosh was Mr. Congeniality, a walking contradiction to the stereotypical dour, serious homicide inspector. Since Paavo was dour and serious enough for both of them, the two men had a good partnership.

  “How did it go Tuesday?” Paavo asked softly, thinking about the funeral.

  “Hey, what can I say? It went.”

  “And I’m on some damned cruise. I should have been there.”

  “No, pal. It wouldn’t have helped. Rest, realize you did everything you could, then get the hell back here and help me out with these damn cases. I got one case, the guy was found in his apartment, deadbolts up one side and down the other on the front door, and safety bars on the windows, also locked. He was found shot in the back of the head.”

  “Sounds l
ike suicide,” Paavo said drily.

  “Yeah. You’re right,” Yosh admitted.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” Paavo said, going straight to the reason he had called.

  “A job? Wait a minute. You’re supposed to be on vacation. You aren’t sitting around thinking about some murder case, are you? Ed Gillespie’s killers are behind bars. They aren’t going nowhere. We’ve got everything under control. Now relax, fellow.”

  “This job has to do with my vacation. I need you to check out some people. The other passengers, to begin with.”

  “Are you kidding me? How many are there?”

  “Only five. We’re on a freighter, remember?”

  “That’s right. Leave it to you, partner, to find some rough-and-tumble way to take a cruise. With a fancy woman like Angie, too. Okay, who are these people?”

  Paavo gave him the passengers’ names.

  After writing them down, Yosh said, “Can I ask why you want me to check up on them?”

  “There’s something odd going on here. I can’t begin to figure it out.”

  “Dangerous?”

  Good question. “I’m not sure,” Paavo said. “I hope not.”

  “Okay, pal. I’ll run all the usual checks. Give me a couple of days.”

  “That’s too long. I need to know right away. Tomorrow, this same time.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Yosh sounded a little skeptical of how successful his best might be. “Say, where are you now?”

  “Mazatlán.”

  “Mazatlán? You’re making pretty good time, aren’t you?”

  “The freighter couldn’t stop at Cabo San Lucas. We were supposed to spend a couple of days there. But I’m not done—I want you to check on a few more people.”

  “Why didn’t I guess?”

  “One of the stewards got sick and had to leave the ship. Find out how he’s doing, will you? Sven Ingerson. Whenever we ask, we’re told no one knows how he is, which is hard to believe. They probably took him to an emergency hospital in or near Long Beach.”

  “Got it.”

  “The cook, Peter Lichty, jumped ship in Oakland—”

  “He was desperate.”

  “See what you can find out about him.”

  “Okay.”

  “And last, do the same for a professor who was found dead in Berkeley. Professor Conrad Von Mueller.”

  “Will do, partner. Anything else you’d like me to do? Check up on the crew of the Queen Mary, maybe?”

  “That’ll do it.”

  “Thank God.” Then Yosh laughed. “Remind me never to take a vacation with you, okay?”

  Even in November the tropical, humid heat was a shock. Angie took out a handkerchief and pressed it to her cheeks and forehead but didn’t say a word. She wasn’t one to complain. Much.

  As they drove along Avenida Olas Altas, she asked the driver to stop and wait a minute, then jumped out and ran up to an ATM machine. Paavo watched in amazement as she put in a credit card and got back nearly two hundred dollars’ worth of Mexican pesos at the push of a button. He should have thought of that, even though he never bothered with ATMs in San Francisco and hadn’t traveled outside the country in years. Earlier, Julio had offered to exchange a hundred dollars for him before he left the ship. He had agreed, and despite Julio’s unfavorable exchange rate, he was willing to concede that Julio might, in fact, have had a few good qualities. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.

  “I didn’t know you knew Spanish,” he said when she got back into the cab.

  “I don’t. But I do speak Italian and French—and I know some prayers in Latin. They’re all close enough that I can, to a degree, fake it.”

  “I’m impressed.” He meant it.

  Before long, he saw a small hotel with a placard showing Hotel del Sud, and an ENGLISH SPOKEN HERE sign in the window.

  Badly in need of paint, the building had a pinkish tone, with narrow wooden balconies on the upper floors. The wood looked weak, as if the balconies were for show, not for anyone to actually stand on. Blue full-length shutters covered the windows.

  “I don’t know about this,” Angie said softly.

  “Stop here,” Paavo said to the cab driver.

  As the two of them lifted all of Angie’s luggage from the trunk, she picked up her tote bag and carry-on and went ahead into the hotel.

  Dark wooden and rattan furnishings filled the lobby. A wide-bladed ceiling fan blew hot, humid air around the room. Angie felt as if she’d just stepped into an Indiana Jones movie.

  The hotelier, though, won her over with his warm greeting. He was a transplanted Australian, helpful in a salty, carefree manner. He quickly sent a bellboy out to help Paavo.

  They were shown their room, a second floor walk-up. It was small, with thick white walls and dark wood trim. The furniture might have been referred to as expensive Mission style back in the United States, but here, it was heavy, utilitarian, and old. A large crucifix hung over the bed. There was no air conditioning.

  Angie walked into the room and collapsed onto a stiff, straight-back wooden chair beside a small writing table. Her hair was a mess, her clothes were a mess, and her nails were a mess.

  But she didn’t care. She was on dry land.

  Angie watched Paavo undress and go into the bathroom to take a shower, about the only way to cool off in the hot, humid weather. His mood had taken a turn for the better since he’d become involved with Livingstone. He wasn’t yet 100 percent, but things were better.

  As she listened to the water running, she got an idea. In no time, she’d peeled the sweaty, clinging clothes from her body and padded into the bathroom.

  “Hi,” she said, peeking around the shower curtain that covered the bathtub. Paavo held soap in one hand, a washcloth in the other. His eyes showed surprise, then something deep, almost primal, as he put the washcloth down and held out his hand to her.

  She stepped into the tub. He drew her toward him, until they were both standing under the cooling spray.

  That shower went from cooling spray to the hottest, longest, most satisfying steambath she’d ever taken.

  They lay on the bed, drying off and catching their breaths again. After a while, Angie turned to Paavo. “Hungry?” she asked.

  “Not anymore.” He trailed his fingers along her spine.

  “I meant for dinner.”

  “There’s probably a restaurant near the hotel,” he said. “We could go find one.”

  “I think the last decent meal we ate was the dinner I cooked,” she said. On board ship, they’d slept through breakfast, and by lunchtime the air conditioner had broken. Although fruit and sandwiches were put on the table, everyone had been too hot and miserable to eat.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Over twenty-four hours ago.”

  “No wonder I’m starving.”

  He threw back the sheet. “Let’s get ready and go.”

  A short while later, they left the hotel and walked along a narrow street filled with shops and sidewalk vendors. Angie could see Paavo looking over his shoulder, peering into doorways and side streets. She smiled to herself. Her cop was nearly back.

  On the corner they found a small restaurant called El Toro, which had both an indoor and outdoor eating area. Livingstone sat at one of the tables, a glass of beer before him, and used his hat to fan himself. Although he was clearly aware of them, he looked through them as if he’d never seen them before. They weren’t sure what he was up to, but went along with his pretense.

  Inside, the restaurant was fairly empty except for two tables with families. Angie and Paavo sat at a table and placed their orders. They began with an appetizer of sierra ceviche, a dish made by using a lime juice marinade to essentially “cook” shredded mackerel, and then the fish was mixed with minced avocado, tomato, and chili peppers, plus cilantro and olive oil. After that, since Mazatlán is one of the shrimp capitals of the world, Angie ordered grilled shrimp spiced a la Diablo. Paavo, instead, looked over the listing of fish he al
most never saw in San Francisco and decided on smoked marlin—marlin ahumada. Curious though he was, he took a pass on the turtle soup after Angie assured him there was nothing “mock” about it.

  A short while later, two men and a rather exotic-looking woman entered the restaurant and sat at the table next to theirs.

  How could one person have so many clothes? Five pieces of coordinated Fendi luggage were stacked in the corner, along with two pieces of utilitarian Samsonite. George Gresham was surprised they hadn’t unpacked anything yet. Most women were compulsive about wrinkles, in their clothes as well as on their faces, and unpacked as soon as they arrived anyplace—which helped the former problem, if not the latter.

  He stooped over and used a laser detector on the top Fendi piece to search for any devices rigged up to the case that might harm him or let the woman know her bag had been tampered with. Nothing showed up on his scope. Okay. That meant either that she wasn’t using anything special or that the laser didn’t work.

  Or she was just a casual tourist.

  But he wasn’t about to take any chances. Not when, first. Colonel Ortega, a known underworld figure, had mentioned the Hydra being on the Valhalla; second, his old friends back at FBI headquarters seemed convinced the Hydra was headed toward Mazatlán; and third, this little woman had suddenly shown up—off the Valhalla, in Mazatlán, and right here in a hotel known to the spy trade.

  Two plus two. Tic plus tac. Quid plus quo. She had to be the Hydra.

  Quickly he picked open the luggage and went through it all. Nothing. Well, that didn’t surprise him. The Hydra was too clever to leave anything incriminating in a suitcase. But he had to check, nonetheless. That’s what he’d been trained to do, what he’d spent years doing, in fact.