A Trace of Revenge

by Lyle Howard

  A round of sorrowful groans and murmurs permeated the room.

  Banks held up his hands to settle the crowd. “Pete’s stateroom is not that far from here, and I’ll bet that if we all gave him a rousing round of applause and cheered really loud, he would probably hear it and know how much we care about him!”

  The guests all jumped to their feet and began clapping and hooting and hollering.

  Banks put the microphone under his armpit and joined in the applause. “Thank you all so much, I’m sure Pete heard that! As a matter of fact, I think most of Bermuda would have heard that!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Banks saw Nicholas Coltello and Jimmy Diaz returning to their table. They avoided eye-contact and just took their seats like all the rest of the passengers.

  “Uh, so to answer the second question from before, I am the Chief Financial Officer of the Mason Cruise Line. Some may call me a bean-counter, or an overpaid accountant,” he said, jovially. “But my most important title is Peter Mason’s brother-in-law if that answers any of your questions about how I got to where I am today!”

  The guests laughed, and Nicky the Knife flagged down a waiter to get himself another drink.

  Banks had no idea how he was keeping everyone so entertained after just being witness to a cold-blooded murder. It felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. He tried not to think about what they had done with the corpse, but there was a vast ocean outside, filled with ravenous marine predators.

  “While you are enjoying your dinners prepared by one of the most prominent Northeastern Florida chefs, Chef Justin Bonner, we will be performing a series of simulations on the Hydra’s propulsion and engineering systems. I can assure you that everything is running better than we could have ever hoped for, but we want to try out these basic maneuvers to see how our ship handles during food service. The Captain has assured me that not one drop of wine will spill nor one dinner roll…roll,” he chuckled.

  Banks placed the microphone back into its stand and put his hands in his pockets. He was worried someone might spot them trembling.

  “We will also be testing out our severe weather protocols, which means our windows will shutter automatically for a few minutes. This is to test the integrity of our watertight seals and the stability of the recently added Oceanwalk, which some of you were daring enough to experience tonight. Not to worry! I can tell from the headcount that the Oceanwalk is perfectly safe.”

  The guests giggled nervously. One of them yelled out, “seemed a little wobbly to me!”

  Banks turned to the heckler. “Bartender, cut him off, he seems a little wobbly to me!”

  Everyone laughed, and Banks took a step back from the microphone stand. He was worried that if he touched the metal rod with his sweaty hands, he would probably electrocute himself.

  “So, to wrap it up, you might feel the ship slow down, hover in place for a few minutes, then reverse direction; finally, Captain Karrlson will increase the Hydra’s forward speed and resume our course to King’s Wharf, Bermuda. I apologize for any inconvenience, but I’m sure you will be so enraptured with the cuisine that you’ll be oblivious to any changes in the Hydra’s movement. Thank you all for being a part of this momentous evening, and on behalf of Peter Mason and the entire Mason Cruise Line family, enjoy your food, drink all you want, and by all means, dance the night away to our incredible house band, Nia Rohan and The Legacy!”

  Banks stepped off the stage and waved as Nia Rohan began singing “Shut Up and Dance.” Waiters poured out of the kitchen carrying menus and baskets of rolls and butter for each table. The women at each table were given menus first, and the men last. Another set of waiters filled water glasses and handed each guest their linen napkin. If someone was wearing black, they knew enough to give that guest a black napkin so no lint would show on their clothing. Everything was done first-class.

  Even though she had taken a temporary seat with Matt and Simone, Lauren King had noticed Nicholas Coltello and Jimmy Diaz’s vanishing act before dinner. Perhaps a restroom pitstop, perhaps not. Maybe it was the fact that the man they had been speaking so intensely with fifteen minutes earlier had suddenly become the master of ceremonies. That was the way her mind operated; if she thought the worst, then she’d never be disappointed. But what bothered her more than Nicky the Knife’s tardiness or the unexpected change of hosts was the fact that Petty Officer Simms had never returned.

  58

  As Scott Simms wormed his way toward the bridge, Captain Roy Sowell was going over the docking procedures with Hassan and Jean-Baptiste. He re-read the dossier that had been provided about the Dobrinski. She was a recommissioned supertanker of the VLCC class, which stood for Very Large Crude Container. With dimensions of over one thousand feet in length and nearly two hundred and fifty feet wide, four ships the size of the Hydra could comfortably fit inside her massive cargo hold.

  For the past four weeks, the Dobrinski had been anchored off the coast of Morocco while her interior was retrofitted to make room for the Hydra. She was so large that when she was at full capacity, she had to remain at sea to unload her oil because no port in the world was deep enough to accommodate her.

  Usually, the supertanker would have a draft of well over sixty feet, but with her cargo hold stripped down to the hull, she would be riding much higher in the water. She had two massive twin screws with redundant propulsion and maneuvering should the occasion warrant it. In layman’s terms, Sowell surmised, she was one quick beast.

  The Dobrinski’s stern was equipped with a loading ramp that could be lowered enough that the Hydra would effortlessly glide inside. If all went as planned, the Hydra’s cargo would be unloaded in less than five minutes, and the two ships would go their separate ways.

  Sowell closed the file and rested it on his lap. He took off his readers and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head was pounding as the consequences of his actions played through his mind. He imagined the devil sitting on one of his shoulders and an angel on the other. He wasn’t a religious man, but nonetheless, they were screaming in his ears, tearing his soul in two.

  It wasn’t about the technology; if he had been worried about a satellite-killing laser falling into the wrong country’s hands, he could have gone below and torn out the damned circuitry himself. If the United States had one of these things, then rest assured the other guys did too. Stealing and selling this technology would be nothing more than an ampersand in the history book of warfare.

  No, this was payback for the way he had been treated. Plain and simple. This was about the money. It was about the ability to take care of his family when his country would not. This was the logic that the devil had persuaded him with.

  The angel was just as relentless. He kept seeing the faces of his crew flash before his eyes. He mourned each and every one of them. He had no idea that they were going to die, but he had made a pact with the living devil, and this internal slideshow was his penance.

  “Captain,” Hassan called out, “The Dobrinski is two nautical miles out.”

  “Slow her down to one-fifth and check to see that we’re buttoned up downstairs. We want to be in and out in as fast as possible. Is the crew ready to unload?”

  Jean-Baptiste spoke into his headset. “They’re ready on your signal, Captain.”

  “Slow and steady then. Let’s make this as smooth as possible.”

  One deck below, Simms had his back to the bulkhead and was making his way cautiously toward the bow. He had already been reminded by at least three crewmembers that dinner was being served and the rest of the ship was off limits until the meal service was finished. He graciously thanked each steward and asked for directions back to the dining room, which he totally ignored.

  With his back to the wall, he was surprised at how smooth the Hydra actually ran. The Coast Guard might well consider using this hydrofoil technology when building any new ships. There was an elevator
at the far end of the passageway with guest suites lining each side. The walls continued the theme of nautical art that he had seen elsewhere on the ship. Moving past depictions of the German Battleship Bismark mounted alongside the U.S.S. Constitution made him take pause and question the interior decorator’s allegiances.

  He was halfway down the long corridor when he heard a cabin door open and then slam shut. He could make out two male voices heading his way. He ducked into the doorway of the nearest cabin and squatted low against the wall. Two men walked by in a hurry, undoubtedly late for dinner. Simms wasn’t paying attention to their conversation, but one of the two was dropping “F” bombs like they were a dime a dozen.

  The bridge was one deck above where he stood. He sprinted the rest of the hallway, continually looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. When he reached the elevator, he pressed the “up” button, but the light didn’t come on. He tapped it over and over, but there was no response. There was a slot running the length of the control panel which he now surmised was activated by a key card. This was a dead end, but there had to be another access to the bridge. There was never only one exit from a control room. Somewhere there had to be another way in, one that didn’t require an elevator; an escape route in case the ship had to be abandoned in case of an emergency. He just had to find it.

  “Five hundred yards and closing, Captain,” Hassan called out.

  Sowell got up from his chair and walked to the window. “Leave the spotlight off, we can do this with the light from inside the tanker. Are we all secure below?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jean-Baptiste affirmed. “The guests are in the middle of dinner and have been told what to expect.”

  Sowell nodded. “Okay then, slow her down to a hover and let the Dobrinski know we’re coming in. Alert the crew in our cargo hold that time is of the essence.”

  Once the Hydra was within one hundred yards of the supertanker, the horizon disappeared and was replaced with a towering red steel wall. In ten foot high white lettering, the name Dobrinski was painted on the stern, along with her country of registration.

  Jean-Baptiste spoke into his headset and two rows of parallel lights, like lines of longitude, came to life on the tanker’s stern. Slowly and deliberately, the loading ramp began to descend like a drawbridge, and the lights inside the supertanker’s cargo hold came into view. Once the door was level with the water, Sowell watched half a dozen of the Dobrinski’s crewmembers attach flotation buoys to the end of the ramp. When the floats were secured, the ramp splashed into the water, and a crewman on the top of the door signaled the thumbs up.

  Sowell grabbed a handrail that ran the length of the control panel. “Let’s make her as tall as she can get, gentlemen. We want to keep the incline to a minimum. We don’t want some Sunday sailor downstairs to question what’s going on. Increase our forward speed to one-fifth and keep it there. We don’t want to rattle any dishes.”

  With the precision of a surgical scalpel, the Hydra slipped into the rear of the supertanker and slowed to a hover once she was in position. The velocity of the bottom fanbines was gradually slowed until the ship settled onto her inflatable pods. Sowell pressed a button on his watch. “The clock is running. Five minutes and we’re out of here, finished or not.”

  Inside the cargo hold of the Dobrinski, a series of cranes crisscrossed the ceiling. Used generally for loading and moving shipping containers weighing tens of thousands of pounds each, the crane positioned above the Hydra’s cargo hatch had no problem removing an eight hundred pound wooden crate.

  When the task was completed, the Hydra’s hatch was sealed, the bottom fanbines were increased in speed, and the two fans on the stern were thrown into reverse.

  Sowell checked his watch. There were forty-five seconds to spare. Easy-peasy. “We’re all secure?”

  “Yes sir,” Hassan replied. “The cargo hatch shows green and locked.”

  The Captain returned to his seat. “Then bring her to the same height and speed we used going in, boys. When we’re half a mile out, we’ll crank her up to full speed and put this leviathan in our rearview mirror.”

  Hassan and Jean-Baptiste smiled at each other from different sides of the front control panel.

  “Yes, sir, one half-mile, sir.”

  “Yes sir, full speed, sir!”

  The Hydra glided effortlessly in reverse and backed out of the supertanker. As soon as she had cleared the ramp, the Dobrinski’s flotation buoys were removed and the loading ramp began to rise and seal. It looked like a giant mouth closing after a satisfying meal.

  “The Dobrinski is underway, Captain,” Jean-Baptiste called out. “She’s heading east at five knots, and her speed is increasing.”

  Sowell took a sip of water, and let the liquid soothe his raw throat. He had pulled it off, and now his family would never want for anything. “Okay, gentlemen,” he said, between coughs, “next stop, King’s Wharf, Bermuda. Let’s see if we can make it in record time!”

  59

  “So why don’t you arrest him?” Simone signed, furiously.

  Matt rolled his eyes as he interpreted for his girlfriend. He knew what the detective’s answer was going to be even before she said anything.

  “There is nothing I would rather do more, Simone, but it’s not that easy.”

  Simone pushed her place setting toward the middle of the table and continued to sign with anger in her gestures. “He killed Matt’s parents! Matt knows it, and I know it. Why is it so difficult for you to believe him?”

  Matt blew out an exasperated breath as he turned to Simone. As he signed to her, he spoke softly so Lauren would understand. “The fact that I was able to use this crazy thing to find him isn’t exactly irrefutable evidence that the police can use. There is no solid proof.”

  “But he threatened you!”

  Lauren held out her arm to interrupt the conversation. “All he said was he wanted to continue his conversation with Matt later and that he hated loose ends. Even though you know, and Matt knows, and I know what that implies, it wasn’t a direct threat.”

  Simone shook her head in frustration. “He knows who Matt is now. He’s the loose end!”

  Matt put his arm around Simone and pulled her close. He kissed the side of her face to calm her down.

  Lauren looked over her shoulder at Magnetti, who was staring back at them. She leaned in to whisper, even though the band was playing so loud it wouldn’t have mattered even if Matt and Simone could hear. “Everything you say is correct, Simone. I do think he recognized Matt and now he realizes he’s left a witness. There is no statute of limitations on murder, so I would be lying to you if I said I didn’t believe that Matt was in danger. I just don’t think that Magnetti is stupid enough to attempt something on a crowded boat out in the middle of the ocean.” She reached out and took Simone’s hand. “I need you to calm down. I know it won’t be easy, but the more suspicious you behave, the more concerned Magnetti will become. Eat your dinner,” the detective instructed, as she moved the place setting back into position, “and try not to look over there. Let me handle this.”

  Matt nodded. “She’s right,” he signed to Simone, “I trust her.”

  “I’m scared.”

  Matt kissed her cheek again. “I know, but everything will be alright.”

  The detective stood up. “I want you to come with me, Matt.”

  Simone grabbed his arm as he stood up.

  Matt rubbed her arm and released it. “The room is full of people, Simone. Nothing is going to happen here. We have to act like everything is normal.”

  “Where is she taking you?”

  The detective smiled warmly. “I just want to introduce him to a few people, and then he’ll be right back. Five minutes tops.”

  “Order the chicken for me,” Matt signed. “And the shrimp cocktail.”

  Simone looked up at him mystif
ied. “Seriously?” She signed.

  “Order the steak for yourself, and we can share the dinners.”

  Simone rapped her knuckles on the table. “He wants me to order dinner!”

  Matt moved to his right to regain her line of sight. “No, I want you to act normal. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  The detective smiled down at Simone, but the gesture was not reciprocated.

  “Where are we going?” Matt asked.

  Lauren turned her head toward Matt as they walked around the edge of the dance floor. “There are two people I want you to meet.”

  “By meet you mean…”

  The detective nodded. “Exactly. Just see if you get any impressions from them.”

  Nicholas Coltello and Jimmy Diaz were buried in a secretive discussion. When the waiter came to get their dinner choices, Coltello waved her away.

  “Hello, Nicky,” Lauren said, walking up to the table with Matt at her side. “Not eating tonight?”

  Coltello stood up as any gallant gentleman would. “Detective King. How nice to see you again. I thought that was you over there, but I’ve never seen you all dolled up. You clean up nice!”

  Lauren grinned. “How long has it been, Nicky?”

  Coltello shrugged. “I don’t know, Detective. A few months, maybe? I’m trying to cut pork out of my diet.”

  “Nicky, Nicky, Nicky,” Lauren sighed. “You can try to dress up a turd, but it’ll always smell like one.”

  Coltello’s fist clenched, which was Jimmy Diaz’s signal to interrupt the exchange. “Did you just sashay over here to insult Mr. Coltello, Detective King? Or is there some other reason you have to ruin this nice evening for us?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, putting her hand on her chest. “I just wanted to introduce you to someone. A friend of mine, Matthew Walker.”