Crude Carrier (7 page)

“What about the other officers? Have you heard anything about them?”

“Not a great deal. The first mate, Pressler, has a bit of an odor about him—something about an investigation for assault or even manslaughter on one of his earlier ships. Nothing proven—not enough to keep him from getting another berth, leastwise. The chief engineering officer, Bowman, is very senior. Wouldn't be surprised if he retired in another year or two. The other officers, both navigation and engineering, all apparently have satisfactory records. They're quite young, but that's the way with so many of the new officers nowadays.”

“Did Herberling ask you for any other information?”

“Only the registrar entries and home addresses for the officers and ratings on the
Aurora Victorious
. He was particularly interested in their licenses, but I found nothing out of the ordinary there. Oh, yes—he wanted any information I had on the
Aurora
's course of travel. Couldn't help him with that, either. I know the sailing and docking dates, but I don't get daily reports like the owners do.”

“You told him that?”

“Well, sent him a fax explaining that he'd have to ask Hercules Maritime. Wonderful machine, the fax. Works twenty-four hours a day and one doesn't have to waste time waiting for someone to answer one's ring. Very convenient for my line of work, you see, dealing with vastly different time zones.”

Julie thought of something else. “Did you look at Third Officer Rossi's license?”

“Yes! Mr. Herberling asked particularly for that.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette. “Very little there, of course. Brand-new officer and all. But I did discover he was licensed as a third officer by the Brazilian board.” He added, with a shake of the head, “Now I have no chance to send that information to Mr. Herberling, do I?”

“Brazil?”

“It's not uncommon for more and more chaps to get their licenses wherever they can—crews of convenience, you see, and one country's license is respected by all others.” A shrug. “Even if one nation's examination is far less rigorous than, say, in Britain or the United States.”

“Could Rossi have bought his license without taking an exam?”

Braithwaite nodded. “It's possible. Difficult to prove. For underwriting purposes, however, it would be very dangerous. Could open an owner to a charge of negligence or even abetting. It would negate the vessel's insurance. But of course you know all that.”

Julie took a sip from her glass. “Did Herberling say why he wanted this information?”

“No. Seemed to have his reasons, just as you do. And I was—and am—always happy to assist the underwriters to keep insurance rates down. Good for my business, good for the shipping business in general.” He glanced at his empty glass, then into her eyes. “Besides, it's turned into an unexpected and very great pleasure.”

The unexpected and very great pleasure led to another round of drinks, which Braithwaite would not let Julie pay for—“You've brightened my day, dear girl! Made me the envy of every man in the pub. I insist!”

“Do you know Mr. Goff at Hercules Maritime?”

“Robert? Speak with him almost every week.”

“You deal directly with the ship's agents rather than with Mr. Wood?”

“Certainly. No reason to include Wood in the details of inquiry and planning. He signs the charter parties, of course, but the sort of routine information I need—”

“Do you see Goff often?”

“No … I don't believe I've ever met him in person. Everything over the telephone. Strange, isn't it?” He smiled at a corner of the room. “I've been telephoning Hercules Maritime almost daily for years and know Robert's and Wood's voices intimately. But I wouldn't be able to tell you whose face those voices belonged to. I suppose I have closer acquaintance with voices and computer terminals than I have in personal life.” He added brightly, “Rather sad, when you think of it.”

Julie shifted direction. “That building their offices are in looks like a run-down tenement. I expected something a little more … business-like.”

“Oh, well. That building is a Crown property. Owned by the Queen, you see, and the Windsors are notorious landlords. Everything for profit and nothing for upkeep.” He waved his cigarette in a small circle and chuckled. “A metaphor for the entire nation, perhaps. Many of the buildings in this area of London make handsome profits for the royal family and the peers. Still, that doesn't prevent the Queen from asking Parliament for more money every year or two, does it?”

And then Julie came back to the main target. “How can I get in touch with Mr. Goff outside the Hercules Maritime office?”

“Eh? Oh—I see!” A long inhale and a puff of thin blue smoke as he considered. “He does have a pager number for emergencies. I suppose you could reach him on that after working hours.” Casually, he lifted an address book from his jacket's inside pocket and dangled it between thumb and forefinger. “You would like to have it, of course.”

“I would be very grateful.”

“And discreet, dear girl?”

She gave him her warmest smile. “Very.”

He smiled back. “So I've noticed.”

When they finally made their way out of the New Roses to a now vacant Leadenhall Street, Julie could feel the effects of the shandies as they said good-bye, and she wasn't as alert as she should have been. It wasn't until she was in the lift up from Russell Square Station that she glimpsed a face she half noticed earlier. It had gazed into the window of a closed shop as she and Braithwaite came out of the pub. The half-turned profile had a snub nose and contrasting bulbous chin. Average height, denim jacket that verged on dressy, the man now stood at the back of the elevator and stared over Julie's head. Blue eyes. No marks or scars. Sandy hair with a slight wave. And a bland innocence in avoiding her study.

It could be coincidence. London channeled much of its human traffic through the Tube. It wasn't impossible to see the same face on a connecting train or in another station. Still, like her father, Julie was suspicious of coincidence.

The station was a short distance from London University—one of the few sections of the city she knew thoroughly. Those were streets she and Ian had walked, she painfully in love with the older youth who introduced her to London, to the noisy and crowded student pubs, to passion, to sex, to loss. The streets, walks, buildings, and fences had changed little in ten years. Russell, Tavistock, and Woburn squares with their gardens and paths still evoked memories she thought were gone with Ian.

Now, instead of heading toward her room in the Russell Hotel, venerable and haunted with memories, she turned away down Bernard Street, strolling toward the worn grass of Brunswick Square. Turning left for a block, she went up Tavistock and paused to read another of the pale blue historical plaques—the site of another pub favored by Charles Dickens, the Edwin Drood. Then she crossed with the traffic light into Tavistock Square and ambled along one of the quieter paths between trimmed lawns. Pausing to glance behind, she saw a now-familiar snub nose and rounded chin near the square's gate, apparently enjoying the traffic of Woburn Place.

She meandered down the truncated streets and quiet corners that formed the grounds around London University's gray buildings. But memories of the lecture halls, of the heady joy of study for its own sake, of two lovers lingering in quiet corners had been replaced by thoughts about the man following her.

Twilight brought out the streetlights as she walked a little faster now. The massive dome and shadowy façade of the British Museum loomed ahead. Pale brick faces of well-cared-for row houses glowed with curtained windows, and even Great Russell Street was almost empty of foot traffic. She turned into a narrow lane that looked as if it led to Bloomsbury Square. But it was, she knew, a cul-de-sac with a certain garden-level address Julie had visited with all the excitement and eagerness of an answering heart. Past silent homes with an occasional “to let” notice—no emotion at all now, no sense of yearning—she walked swiftly back to the corner. The man stood motionless beside a mushroom-shaped letter drop whose red color was almost lost in the dim light.

“Why don't you ask me what you want instead of following me?”

“Sorry, miss?”

“You've been following me. Why?”

“Haven't any such thing! I live just down the street here. Just stepped out to post a letter.”

“Which way down the street?”

“Right down there, if it's any of your business, miss.”

“You've made it my business by following me. If I see you behind me once more, I will call a policeman.”

“You haven't seen me behind you at all!”

Julie stepped quickly toward the young man and saw the start of angry fear in his eyes; it was the look of something cornered and on the edge of being dangerous. “The New Roses pub, Russell Square Station, and here. As bad as you are at this, you ought to go into another line of work.”

“I don't know what you're talking about! Leave off, now—I mean it!” His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, and Julie, wary, watched his eyes and waited for that instant when a weapon would be pulled.

But he only backed away. “You're crazy, is what you are! Think this is America? I haven't been following anybody!”

“Next time, the police.” She walked into the darkness between two streetlamps Behind her, a voice throaty with anger muttered, “Bloody bitch!”

X

The
Aurora Victorious
trembled from the power of its engines as it steamed slowly up the Gulf. Night had come, so humid and thick that Raiford could almost chew it. But the heat did not lessen. Like eruptions from hell, an oil field's burning gas vents flared hotly somewhere in the blackness.

First Mate Pressler introduced Raiford to the officers gathered in the dining saloon for the evening meal—“This is Pierce's stand-in. Name of Raiford.” Scarcely breaking stride to nod, the dozen men gulped their food in near silence. Then half of them disappeared without a word. The rest, belching with the haste of eating, and picking their teeth with the satisfaction of being finished, moved into the wardroom for coffee or a drink so the fast-working steward could clean the saloon.

Third Officer Li smiled at Raiford and waved a hand toward the bar. “Help yourself to drink—please to sign chit for what you take. Honor system.” Scheduled for bridge duty in half an hour, Li sipped a heavy mug of coffee. “You find cabin okay? Know ship now?”

Raiford nodded, “Somewhat,” and sank into a heavily padded armchair beside the Chinese officer.

One of the engineering officers—Graham Hansford—came over, drink in hand, and dropped into another chair. “Getting settled in, are you?”

“It's still a bit strange. But I'm comfortable, thanks.” Raiford asked Li, “Can anyone use that ship-to-shore phone? I'd like to call home and tell them I arrived all right.” As directed, he had e-mailed Stanley Mack just before boarding the ship's launch. But Julie should be called, too, and his cell phone had fallen mute.

“Oh, yes. You buy a calling card from purser—fifty dollars for two hundred units. Very expensive. Satellite relay.”

Hansford nodded. “Two hundred units translates into about fifteen minutes. Cheaper than the six dollars a minute without one, but you'll want to use off-peak hours even with a card. For the Indian Ocean region, that's 03:30 to 07:30, Greenwich time.” He added, “The ship's e-mail is fifty cents a kilobyte. Use Pierce's account number—you'll get billed when you leave ship. E-mails queue up and transfer out three times a day at off-peak hours: 07:35, 19:35, 23:35 GMT. There's fax, too—six dollars a page, whether it goes through or not.”

Li giggled. “You pay for everything except quarters and three meals a day.” He added, “And coffee—owners still supply coffee.”

“Though how bloody long that will last, who knows. Bloody crew even has to pay for their television. Entertainment fee, the sods call it, and blasted few of the films are in Chinese.”

Laughing as if it were a joke, Li agreed. “Owners give you money and take your money. Sometimes more take than give.”

“Ya—and Li, you poor sod, you're ripped off worse than we are.” Hansford rubbed a finger down his long nose and winked at Raiford. “Li's new aboard—they got him for half the pay of the previous third officer. A real bargain, our Li is, aren't you, lad?”

“They tell me take the job or leave it.” He laughed again. “I take it.”

“Got taken is more like.”

“You're Rossi's replacement?”

Hansford looked sharply at Raiford. “Knew him, did you?”

Raiford guessed that the second officer had been talking. “No. His parents phoned me in the States. They asked me to find out what I could about his accident.” He shrugged. “The owners didn't tell them much about it, I guess.”

Hansford grunted and studied the toe of his shoe.

“They also wanted anything personal he might have left. You know, some souvenir of their dead son.” A violin in the background would have been helpful. “Any idea where his personal effects might be stored?”

Hansford's voice was abrupt. “If Rossi left anything personal, the captain would have sent it to the home office for forwarding. Any clothes he left are probably in the slop chest by now.” The mate crossed bony knuckles around one knee and leaned back against the pull of his arms. “Li, here, never met Rossi. I knew him, though. Many a time he sat right there where you're sitting and I sat right here. We tossed down our share.”

“Did you see his accident?”

“No. But I was at the funeral—nice one. You can tell his parents that. All hands at services, even the Muslims, and Captain Boggs reading Psalm 23.” Hansford added, “Had to use the Liberian flag, though. But that's close to the Stars and Stripes, right? Guest of honor didn't seem to mind, anyway.”

Raiford had to agree that the substitute flag made little difference to Rossi. He stared at the black circle of coffee in his mug. It tilted very slightly first one way and then the other. The motion was almost imperceptible. Except for the trembling of the deck, Raiford would not know they were under way. “Was the weather rough when he fell?”

Hansford tugged at a lock of his curly dark hair as he thought. “Can't recollect.” He called across the wing of his chair. “Mr. Pressler—Mr. Raiford here wants to know was the weather rough when Rossi had his accident.”

The lounge was suddenly and silently alert. The squat man, a highball glass dwarfed in his meaty fist, slowly looked up from the magazine he leafed through. “Rough? Neither rough nor calm. Average, I'd say. Why?”

“Says he wants something to tell Rossi's parents.”

“Well, Mr. Raiford, tell them it was a day like any other.” The man's lips stretched in a grin that showed stubby teeth with wide gaps. “That's how people die, right? On days like any other?” Then, “Speaking of which, you ready to go down in the tank tomorrow morning? Solenoid's out on one of the relay switches. Mr. Hansford, there, can show you the way.”

“Me? Bloody hell!”

“Yes, you, Graham me lad. The job calls for an engineer to accompany, and Chief Engineer Bowman gave me your name. So direct any complaints to him. Besides, it's time someone from engineering did some damned work around here—earn your bleeding pay, like.”

“Gawd, I hate going down in the tanks.”

“Don't know anybody likes it. But we can't have our brand-new electronics specialist croak off, can we? You keep him out of trouble. And while you're at it, you can look over the plates for cracks. Have your work party at the hatch of number two center tank at oh eight hundred. With Drager gear.”

“Oh, gawd.”

Raiford drained his cup. “I'd better do some reading.”

“So you should, Mr. Raiford.” Pressler smiled again. “You want to be ready—don't want to spend time fumbling about down there. Mr. Li, speaking of time, it's nearing eight bells. Haul your arse up to the bridge.”

“On my way, sir.”

Woody, the Taiwanese deck steward, had pulled heavy drapes across the windows to prevent light from escaping forward. The day couch was now a large, freshly made bed with sheet and light blanket neatly turned down at one corner. A pitcher of cold water stood sweating next to an upturned glass behind the rail of the small table. The lamp glowed softly, promising rest, which, Raiford was aware, he needed very much.

Setting his travel clock for two forty-five, Raiford put himself quickly to sleep by reading wiring diagrams and specifications for the loading control system. When the alarm gave its muffled rattle beneath his pillow, he dragged himself to a sitting position and rubbed his thumbs into puffy eyes. Then he opened his door slowly. The corridor was illuminated by low-wattage bulbs in wire cages placed every twenty feet or so along the walls. The pungent odor of oil was gone now, though the protective strips were still laid over the green carpets. In the stillness, he felt more than heard the engine's throb far below. But except for an occasional slow creak of metal or the steady wash of the ventilation system, there was no sound. Hansford had said they were steaming at a slow twelve knots—“mooring point won't be clear of traffic before thirteen hundred hours”—and it would take three hours more to tie up and bring the hoses to the manifolds before they could start filling tanks. “Gives us the whole morning to check out the relay switches. We won't stay in the tank that long, though. Beastly place!”

Raiford's feet were silent on the carpeted stairs leading down to the lower bridge deck and its wardroom. In the dimness, the coffee urn's light glowed red, warning that someone would probably come by for a cup before the second watch reported for duty at 03:45.

Directions for use of the Inmarsat-A telephone were taped to the set. Turning it on, Raiford let the satellite telephone warm up for a few seconds as he read his new calling card with its directions for use. From this corner of the world, his voice would be transmitted through at least two satellites. Figure ten or eleven hours' difference. Using the time-chart hanging on the bulkhead, it was hard to tell exactly where the hour line ran through the Gulf. But it should be around five or six in the afternoon in Denver, and Julie could be working late. But the only response was a digital voice that apologized and told the caller to please leave a message.

He did: the Indian Ocean Region Code and the seven-digit ship ID number. Then he dialed again. This time he spoke to Julie's personal answering machine. “Hi, Julie—it's knight-errant father. Here's the calling code in case you need to reach me.” He repeated the numbers, then dialed a third time. This was to Julie's mobile telephone, and, after several rings, her voice answered, “Hello?”

“Hi, Julie.”

“Dad! Is it you? How are you?”

“Fine. How are things in Denver? Anything new?”

“I'm in London—got in yesterday.”

“London … ! Hercules Maritime's offices?”

“Yes. They didn't give me much, but I do have a lead to one of their clerks who might help. I'll try to set something up with him this evening.” She didn't mention the man who had followed her. Her father would have enough on his mind without worrying about that. Besides, she could take care of herself. “It seems like you've been gone for ages.”

“Yeah, it does—only another thirteen days, six hours, and thirty-four minutes to go, but who's counting? Still, it's good I came—there's something here. I ask a question about Rossi and people get tighter than a lawyer giving free advice. See if you can locate Rossi's footlocker. The captain thinks it was sent to the home office to be forwarded to his parents.” A movement in the passageway caught his eye. “Can't talk much now but here's the ship's calling codes if you need to reach me. Can't rely on my cell phone. For backup I'll use e-mail or fax to the office.” He was repeating the ship's numbers when Shockley, not surprised to see the Inmarsat in use at this hour, came in. Raiford said a tender good-bye to Julie—not entirely for Shockley's benefit—and nodded hello as he hung up. “Calling my daughter. Let her know I arrived okay.”

The pudgy man yawned and nodded. “Spend half my bleeding pay on calls to me family.” He rattled in the breadbox for a stale roll to go with his coffee. “Don't forget to log your calls in the book, there. Purser gets huffy if the user log don't square with his record of calls.”

Shortly after a hurried breakfast, Raiford jogged down the long deck toward Hansford and two seamen standing near the hatch. The sun, which had been gigantic and scarlet as it shouldered through the mauve band of dust and haze that was the morning horizon, was turning into a white glare that stung Raiford's eyes. Even this early, the green deck rippled with heat, and he felt as if he trotted down a long runway—broad, empty, hot—toward the cluster of men, equipment, and bicycles near the rail. Every hundred feet or so, a fire hydrant straddled the central piping, and here and there tubes, cleats, and access hatches erupted from the level surface of the deck. Beyond the pipes of the loading manifold, a low steel barrier crossed the deck in the form of a shallow V whose angle was aimed forward. Farther down toward the bow was another. Breakwaters, he had been told, to shed seawater that might plunge over the bow during storms and wash down the lengthy deck to crash into the island. But it was hard to imagine any wave big enough to rise above the ship's wide bow.

As Raiford neared the three men and the pile of gear at their feet, he saw a small, oblong access hatch laid back. Its underside, like the belly of a frog, shone dull white. A shaft of sunlight angled through the opening into a vast cavern and died out before reaching the bottom.

“How deep is that thing?”

“Thirty meters straight down.” Hansford checked out Raiford's rubberized coveralls and green Wellington boots. They were the largest in ship's supply, but they were all too tight. “You look like ten kilos of potatoes in a five-kilo bag. Gloves? Got your gloves?”

“Right here. They're small, too.”

“On you anything normal would be. Wearing any metal? Necklace, earring, wristwatch, whatever?”

“No.”

“Good, then. Won't do to have a spark. Tank's been cleaned—all of them get washed on the ballast leg of the voyage and it's supposed to be gas-free. But they're never really safe. Look clean and peaceful and then blow up in your face over nothing.” The engineering officer winked at one of the waiting crewmen, an Asian whose wide face had been badly scarred by smallpox. “Like a woman, eh, Charley?”

The man laughed and covered his mouth politely.

“This is Mr. Raiford. Charley. Sam. Both are named Wang. Cousins or some such. Most of the crew's named Wang and most are from the same village, so we just use the first names. Right, lads?”

More laughter and smiles.

“Which of you is going down with us?”

The pockmarked man bobbed his head. “I come.”

“You're single and Sam's not, is that it?”

A grinning nod. “Sah!”

“All right. Let's check out the gear and get this over with.”

Sam helped the three sweating men into cumbersome breathing tanks, hoses, and resuscitators. Then they loaded up with rubberized bags of equipment and vinyl-coated tools. Easing through the narrow hatch, they climbed slowly down the rungs welded to the bulkhead.