Point of Honor

by Maurice Medland

  But six hours in which direction? Six hours more, or six hours less? Think! Blake was now talking to himself, ignoring the stares of Kelly and Maria.

  “If the sun rises in the east,” he said, “and you are in the west, then the Greenwich day starts before your day, therefore, time in west longitude is earlier than Greenwich time. So it follows that-”

  “It is a little poem,” Maria said. She sang it out in a tinkling voice. “When longitude is east, Greenwich time is least. When longitude is west, Greenwich time is best.” She grinned at Blake. “My father taught it to me.”

  “That’s it!” Blake said. It was called Greenwich best time when you added time to your local time and Greenwich least time when you subtracted from local time. He remembered now. When you added time, it was called zone plus six, or whatever the number of hours you were adding.

  A feeling of exhilaration swept over him. He shouted “Yes,” went down on one knee and jerked his fist back in a victorious gesture as though he had just slam-dunked the winning two points. In one fluid motion, he came to his feet, picked Maria up by the waist, spun her around and kissed her on the cheek. She giggled and withdrew into her chin.

  Dana Kelly stared at him open-mouthed from behind the ship’s wheel, then laughed. “Cheer up, Lieutenant.”

  Blake looked at her and grinned, feeling his face flush with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. “I think we might just have a shot at it.”

  He set the California time zone on his watch to Greenwich Mean Time and brought the walnut case containing the sextant El Callado had left for him over to the table. The musty smell of the velvet lining rose to greet him. It was a beautiful instrument, a German-made Plath, considered to be the best in the world. It must have belonged to the captain, probably one of his most treasured possessions, a relic of the past, beautifully preserved. He carefully removed it from its case, smiled at Maria and nodded toward the door. “Come on, pal. Let’s go shoot some sun lines.”

  Kelly manned the helm as Blake and Maria stood out on the bridge wing, alternately holding the stopwatch and shooting the sun. When they were finished, Blake returned and started flipping through the Nautical Almanac and the Sight Reduction Tables, looking up the Greenwich Hour Angle, finding the latitude column, looking up the Local Hour Angle, going to the declination column, finding the azimuth, correcting the LHA. He leaned over the chart table and began making calculations, plotting his line of position. Maria stood beside him, handing him calipers, pointing excitedly, chattering in Spanish, catching herself, speaking in English to correct him.

  After a few minutes, he turned to Kelly and said, “I think we’ve got it.”

  “You’re amazing,” Kelly said.

  Blake put his hand on Maria’s thin shoulder. “We’re amazing. I couldn’t have done it without her.”

  Maria looked up at him, beaming.

  “Your course is two-six-eight degrees,” Blake said.

  “Two-six-eight, aye, sir,” Kelly said, turning the wheel to port.

  For the next four hours, the Latin Star cut smoothly through the placid waters, seemingly indifferent to her mortal wound. Blake estimated their speed at 7 or 8 knots, better than he’d expected. He’d checked with the chief for a status report every hour, then every half hour, then every fifteen minutes as the water level got deeper in the engine room. He and Maria kept taking sun sights every half hour and rechecking his calculations. He was certain he was on the right course. They’d been closer to the island than he’d thought. Just a shade over fifty-one miles. At a speed of 8 knots, they could make it in just over six hours. He stepped out on the bridge wing and saw that the sharks were still with them. A long string of seaweed drifted by, a good sign that some kind of land was near. If his figures were right, they couldn’t be more than twenty miles from the island. He kept sweeping the sky with binoculars, hoping to spot a bird. He glanced at his watch and picked up the sound-powered phone to the engine room.

  After two rings, Kozlewski picked it up. “Yo.”

  “How does it look, Chief?”

  “Not good, water’s rising like a bitch, washing up against number one boiler. It’s making fearful noises. I’m about ready to send everybody out of here.”

  “Do it. Get them out of there now if you think-”

  A muffled roaring sound came through the earpiece, then the sound of the explosion enveloped the ship as it seemed to lift up out of the water. Blake rocked back on his heels, gripping the telephone cord to keep from falling, nearly pulling the phone free. A sickening vibration rolled up through the superstructure, into the bones in his feet. He dropped the phone and caught Kelly and Maria, who went flying drunkenly. He lurched toward the bulkhead and grabbed for the handset swinging crazily.

  “Chief. Chief!”

  A great silence settled over the ship. Blake jammed the earpiece against his head, straining to hear over the thud of his heart hammering in his ears. The only sound was a dead and distant whisper, like the haunting roar of an abandoned seashell.

  Jorge Cordoba sat alone in the corner of the bedroom and stared numbly across the room at Nita’s body. He shifted in the white wicker chair and looked at his hands. It had been easy, shockingly easy, to kill. His eyes shifted from the palms of his hands back to the bed where she lay, his fingers curling into fists. She looked small and thin under the sheet. He had cleaned her up and laid her out nicely, covered her so that he couldn’t see her face. But he could still see the disbelieving mask that stared at him in those last few moments of life.

  The air conditioner started with a bump, moving the air in the room. Jorge rubbed his face in his hands and forced himself to get control. Nita’s death was an unfortunate incident, but he couldn’t let it deter him from what he had to do. He pulled the cracked window shade back a fraction and squinted out into the bright light. The tropical sun was high overhead. The bored-looking Peruvian corporal was still leaning against the tree, rifle crooked in his arm, watching the door of the bungalow.

  He glanced at his watch and felt his stomach do a little dip. The watch was one of his most prized possessions, a Patek Philippe, a gift from his padrino, his beloved godfather, on his twenty-first birthday. Jorge did the calculation to focus his mind. It would have been exactly three months and twelve days after his parents had been butchered. The gold watch sickened him now, but he needed it a while longer. He steeled himself to look at it again. It was almost noon. When would Colonel Suarez release him?

  He pulled on his coat and walked around the bungalow to clear his mind. A narrow hallway connected the bedroom with the living room, with a small bath in between. There was a tiny kitchenette off the living room. He wandered from room to room, forcing himself to focus on details, seeing it for the first time. The cheap wicker chairs and tables, the white enamel chipped away, the cushions stained and dirty; the hemp rugs, faded and worn; the rust-stained water closet and sink; the filmy refrigerator that whirred and clanked; the greasy stove, the cockroaches that scurried out of sight; the pervasive smell of mildew. It was all so cheap and vulgar, just what his life had become.

  He wandered into the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror. He bent closer and looked at his eyes. The white membranes were streaked with red. He straightened himself and studied the cloudy reflection. The quicksilver had faded from the mirror’s back in patches large enough to give his face a dark, haunted look. Overnight, he had aged ten years. There were shadows under his eyes. His hair was matted. There was the stubble of a black beard against a ruddy, splotched complexion. The dark blue pin-striped suit he’d chosen with such care three days ago now hung on him like a sack.

  Jorge splashed cold water on his face and walked into the living room. He sat down on the wicker couch and absently took his last cigarette out of the box. He looked at it impassively. It was a custom-made Sherman, brown, with a gold tip. He lit it and leaned back, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. He’d spent the past four hours working his way through the emotions that ha
d wracked his body since Enrique Lopez had spilled his guts. First denial and disbelief, then shock, then grief, then rage, and now hatred. He inhaled another long drag and blew the smoke out slowly, stoically watching the thin stream. Hatred was the purest kind of emotion, like love, but in reverse. It could work against you unless it was carefully controlled. Left unrestrained, the hatred would wash up inside and choke him. For now, he could feel it working beneath the surface, guiding him. It would emerge when he needed it most.

  His first thought was to kill his godfather. He had the advantage. Don Gallardo didn’t know he was aware of his treachery. And he knew he could do it now; killing had been surprisingly easy. But he also knew he’d never get close enough to him with a weapon. There were metal detectors and pat downs even for him.

  But even if he could get to him, he wanted more than just death for the great betrayer. He took another deep drag and forced himself to think it through. He would have only one shot; once he tipped his hand, his life would be worthless. It was important to fully understand what he wanted and plan for it without emotion, just like any other business objective. He wanted Don Gallardo’s death, to be sure, but he wanted more than that. One life for his parent’s lives and the loss of his personal honor was not enough. Only with the death of everything Don Gallardo stood for could he hope to find redemption. He had to find a way, one bold initiative that would bring it all down and redeem his honor in the process. There might be a way.

  He had been the architect of the financial plan, had advised his godfather that the size and scope of the first bullion purchase should be such that it would impress the confederation, show them that Don Gallardo was serious. The aggressive $1.3-billion purchase had been financed with a series of short-term loans secured by Don Gallardo’s real-estate holdings in Uruguay and Argentina, some $950 million worth. Don Gallardo had appealed to the confederation members to put up the balance of the cash, $350 million, as a way to entice them in, to get them used to the idea of working together. It would be like a mutual fund, Don Gallardo had said, each member of the confederation would own shares in the total bullion stockpile in proportion to their contribution.

  After the initial euphoria, many of the members had balked at putting up such huge sums of unsecured cash on one man’s word but had gone along because of Don Gallardo’s standing. The money had been wheedled out of them 50 or 75 million at a time and had been literally crated and carted down to the docks and loaded aboard the Latin Star, just like any other cargo. It had been good-faith money, a test of the procedure Don Gallardo had said would bring the yanquis to their knees.

  But many were still suspicious, skeptical, especially the Gaza brothers, who headed the vicious Brazilian cartel in São Paulo. It would be too much of a coincidence for the first shipment to vanish, just like that, along with the senior financial executive of Don Gallardo’s organization. With the loss of the ship, the confederation would dissolve in a hotbed of bickering and tribal warfare over the perception that they had been duped. Even the magnetic personality of Don Gallardo wouldn’t keep the more radical among them from killing him as a warning to others who might think about ways to rip them off.

  And with Don Gallardo’s death would come the default of the industrial and real estate holdings they had pledged as collateral for the $1.3-billion loan. With no one around to fend them off, their creditors would converge like hawks in a field of mice, gobbling up the choice real estate holdings and selling them off to recover their cash. And with the forfeiture of his property, the closure of Campanilla, and the disappearance of his chief of finance, his organization would come tumbling down.

  Yes, the best way to bring it all down is to make sure that the ship is never found. He knew now what he had to do.

  He retrieved his wallet from his coat and flipped to the telephone numbers in the back. He dialed Admiral Cuartas’s office in Bogotá. After sparring with an overly protective secretary, he mentioned Don Gallardo’s name and got through.

  “Admiral Cuartas here.”

  “Admiral, it’s Jorge Cordoba. Thank you for taking my call.”

  “I understood Don Gallardo was on the line.”

  “I apologize for the confusion. I’m Don Gallardo’s godson, calling on his behalf.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Good news, Admiral. The freighter we talked to you about has been found safe and sound. We have a crew on its way now to recover it. Don Gallardo asked me to call you and let you know that no assistance from the Navy would be required.”

  “It’s a little late for that. The frigate is already on its way,” Admiral Cuartas said. “The captain has orders to lend assistance to the American destroyer first and then to locate the freighter.”

  “I’m sure the captain of the frigate will be glad to hear that he has only one ship to worry about,” Jorge said. “The freighter is under control.”

  “That may be,” Admiral Cuartas said in a controlled voice. “However, the captain of the destroyer has people aboard the freighter. He’s going to want to see them recovered.”

  “We’ve already arranged to take them off. They’ll be reunited with their ship in Buenaventura.”

  “I can’t entrust that to civilians.”

  “Admiral, I give you my assurance that dedicated professionals will do the job.”

  “The American captain will require more than that. I will have to personally assure him that his people are safe and accounted for.” Jorge heard the distant whisper of static while the admiral paused. “Do I have Don Gallardo’s word on this commitment?”

  “Admiral, do you know anyone who keeps his promises more than Don Gallardo?”

  There was a long pause. “I hope for his sake that he keeps this one.” Admiral Cuartas hung up without saying goodbye.

  Jorge hung up the phone and dialed his office. Elena picked it up on the first ring.

  “Señor Cordoba’s office.”

  “Elena, it’s me.”

  “Where in the world have you been? This place is going crazy. Everybody is calling for you. Your desk is covered with messages.”

  “Never mind that now. There’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

  “What?”

  “Take a letter to Don Gallardo.”

  “A letter-”

  “Ready? ‘My Dear Godfather. Attached is our cash-flow summary for the current month and a projection for the next twelve months. As you can see, we will have a significant shortfall from operations due in part to the impending closure of our processing lab at Campanilla, Peru, and the interception and confiscation last month of the shipment en route from Suriname to the Netherlands. Paragraph. As we discussed, I must strongly advise against your suggestion to utilize the confederation’s cash for a short-term loan to get us through this difficult period. It is imperative that we establish trust with the members of the confederation with this, our first buy. If we are unable to replace the cash in a timely manner, we run the risk of jeopardizing all that we have worked for. With deepest respect, Jorge Cordoba, Acting Chief of Finance.’ Got that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Read it back to me.”

  Elena read it back in an excited voice.

  “Good. I want you to backdate it ten days. Then I want you to put a cover sheet on it. No message. Sign it, ‘A friend of the Confederation.’ Got it?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it. I’ll have it ready in ten minutes. Do I send it to Don Gallardo? Where is the attachment?”

  Jorge looked in his black book. “Don’t send it to Don Gallardo. There is no attachment. I want you to wait four hours and fax it to this number. The country code is fifty-five.”

  “That’s Brazil, isn’t it? Who do I send it to? Whose name shall I put on it?”

  Jorge gave her the area code for São Paulo and the rest of the number. “No name. Just send it to that number. Don’t use our fax machine. Go out to a public machine. After you send it, destroy the original and don’t keep any copies.”


  “You’re the boss. When are you coming home?”

  “There’s one more thing I want you to do. You know the safe in my office?”

  “Yes.”

  “The combination is under my desk mat. There’s $50,000 or $60,000 in American notes in the petty-cash box. It’s unaccountable. I want you to take it.”

  “Take it and do what?”

  “Keep it. You’re underpaid. I’m declaring it a cash bonus for you.”

  Elena gasped. “I can’t do that.”

  “Take it. That’s an order.”

  “Have you gone crazy? When are you coming home?”

  Jorge paused and rubbed his eyes. For a brief moment, he was sorry he hadn’t gotten to know her better. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You sound strange. Is everything okay?”

  “It’s going to be.”

  Jorge heard the hollow thumping of a rifle butt on the door and hung up the phone. He stubbed out his cigarette and twisted the deadbolt.

  “Yes?”

  The sweating Peruvian corporal leered into the darkened room. There was a black gap where his left front tooth should have been. Jorge could smell him instantly. “My captain says you can go now,” he said in peasant Spanish.

  Jorge walked back inside for his wallet, and the corporal stepped inside the door. “You are alone?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard talking.”