As he expected, the three blacks were no longer in their deck chairs. They were now spread out, in pieces, around the room. Two out of three, Hermann observed, were, to use his favorite term, “seriously dead”. The third, one of the silent, stoned duo who had looked on and said nothing, was slumped in a spreading pool of blood, moaning and clutching what looked like a fresh ham to his chest. As Hermann approached, he realized that the ham was in fact the top of his thick thigh, which was neatly severed from his torso. This was where the odd howling was coming from. Two .380 hollow-tip rounds to the head ended his annoying screeching and Hermann checked the other two, awarding each with two more slugs in the cranium, making sure they were not going to return to this life. Behind the three dead men, the chain now swung slowly from the beam. There was no sign of the woman.
“Sure looks like a drug deal gone bad,” Hermann mused as he again left the warehouse, replaced the Walther in the duffel and stowed the bag in the boot of the rented, blue Mustang convertible. The new car had a spacious trunk and the two bags fit easily along with Hermann’s sparse luggage.
He drove fast, but within the speed limit and headed for his hotel, in a large and up-scale marina that catered to luxury yachts in the one hundred foot plus class. He checked in as Claus Strickmann, providing a legitimate credit card that could not be tied to him. From his room, he could look out on the harbor full of mega yachts. One of the larger ones, with a gold lettered nameplate reading ALTUNA over the wheelhouse hatch, held his close attention. His plan was to kill the Lynx bitch before she boarded the yacht, but to sign on as a crewman in the event he could not do Bibi before the boat departed Miami.
The next morning, he visited the dockside offices of Harriett Stanton, Yacht Crew Specialist. Harriett was a well-dressed, middle-aged woman with bleached white hair, who had made a reasonable living for forty years finding crews for private yachts. She had already reviewed Hermann’s credentials, faxed to her by another personnel broker in Barcelona and was very anxious to meet him.
“You come highly recommended, Hermann,” Harriett said, motioning him to a comfortable seat and asking if he wanted coffee, tea of a soft drink. Hermann declined and sat quietly with his booted feet flat on the floor and his knees pressed together, a posture Harriett thought would become a young female candidate, but which seemed a bit odd for this man. She explained that a VIP client with a large charter yacht needed a sous chef at once and that she, Harriett, was certain that Hermann was probably right for the job. “However,” she said, with a grin, “you just happen to be the wrong sex.”
“What?” said Hermann, sitting up in his chair.
“Yup. They only want women and you, my friend, might just meet their criteria if you had tits and got rid of the beard.”
“Is this a joke?” Hermann shouted, inching out of the chair and looking at Harriett with venom in his eyes.
“No joke, Sir. Please sit down and relax. I’m sure we can work this out. You know, as well as I do, that your name, Hermann, can also be a woman’s name, right?”
“Ja.”
“So, not to discriminate, I went ahead and did the homework, assuming you would fill the bill. What do you weigh, Hermann?”
He told her in kilos.
She was silent, considering him as one might inspect a modeling candidate. She got up and walked slowly around Hermann who, though still sitting, was becoming agitated.
“If you want to take this job,” Harriett finally said, returning to her desk. “I think we can arrange it, but you’ve got to go see a friend of mine at once. She helps the movie studios and can work wonders. She won’t turn you into Mrs. Doubtfire, but she will test you and discover what is perhaps a hidden side of your character and looks. It will take some time. If she can fix you up, you’ll get on the boat. If not, we’ll need to find someone else.”
“There is no one else. Give me the address,” Hermann barked. “Call her and tell her I’m coming and to make this work,” he said, still greatly upset, but keeping his voice calm. “I won’t have to stay long to get the job done. I can fake it until then.”
“Don’t you want to know what it pays?” asked Harriett, somewhat taken aback by the mixture of distress and casual attitude of this bogus Irish cook with a German accent who didn’t seem all that upset about having to switch gender to complete the job.
“Okay. How much does it pay?” Hermann asked, annoyed at this detail.
“Six hundred US dollars a week. You work five days on and two off, but the executive chef, also female, can ask for more time if she needs you.” She didn’t bother to tell him that her commission would come out of his first month’s pay.
“Okay,” said Hermann.
“Good. Here’s all you’ll need.” Harriett handed him a thick envelope. “Bon chance, Hermann. Good luck.”
“Fuck you,” said Hermann as he walked out of the office and slammed the door noisily. “Mrs. Doubtfire, my ass.”
Chapter Six
Crew
Jean Groff boarded the yacht without any fanfare. The two female crew members on duty at the entry way were not exactly rude, but they made it clear that they thought the diminutive Groff was not as much of a big shot as the owners had said she was, so their welcome was less than cordial. One of them, whose name tag said “Ariana”, showed her to a plush cabin on the port side and told her to await a call.
As soon as she put down her bag, Jean decided to go and find the owners and introduce herself, something she thought was more or less good protocol rather than sitting in the cabin and awaiting their pleasure. So she ignored the instruction from Ariana. She opened her two travel bags, hung up the dressier clothes in the locker, used the head, and then ventured out into the passageway and found her way up to the bridge, which she entered without knocking.
An attractive, red-haired woman of about twenty-five was at the control console, studying the instruments and apparently taking instruction from another woman who stood at her side, wore a shoulder rig with what looked like a large caliber SIG automatic and had a set of shoulder boards with two stripes on her white uniform shirt. Both women turned and looked at Groff as she entered. The armed woman stepped forward and blocked Jean’s way, telling her with a bit too nasty twist to her thin lips that she was not authorized on the bridge and to return to her cabin. Jean ignored the rude and implicit threat and started to move around her.
“I want to see Captain Ingram,” she said, locking eyes with the armed woman.
“She’s busy now.”
“I’ll wait,” Groff said.
“You will leave or I will…”
“You’ll what?” Jean asked, remaining totally relaxed but realigning her body ever so slightly, spreading her bare feet a bit apart, balancing on her toes and the balls of her feet.
“Belay that,” a quiet female voice said from behind her. The armed woman stood still, her eyes remaining on Groff, but losing some of their malevolence for the moment.
“Miss Groff,” the voice said, “welcome aboard. I’m Joanna Ingram. You were asked to stay in your cabin.”
“I know, Captain,” said Groff, checking out the four gold stripes on Ingram’s shoulders. The tension almost immediately left her combative stance and tone. “It’s just that I don’t respond well to orders from people I don’t know or work for, especially if they are delivered with veiled threats, Captain,” Groff said, relaxing more and turning to study the tall, impressive-looking woman in dress whites, shoulder boards and a black baseball cap with gold scrambled eggs on the peak. Ingram stood just inside the open doorway. Behind her was a short passageway that led to another smaller area behind the wheelhouse. “And with all due respect, Captain, I was hired by Mister Norquist. I report only to him, so that’s why I am here. I’m not being paid to sit around, nor am I inclined to lounge in my cabin until I report to my employer.”
“Understood,” said Ingram. Her tone also was relaxed and she extended her right hand, which Jean shook quickly, feeling a warm and well- calloused palm and wondering what level of martial arts this attractive and seemingly very fit woman practiced. Groff noted that Ingram was nearly six feet tall, wore a carefully tailored white shirt and fitted trousers and carried herself with a restrained air of authority that said she was good at her job and knew it. Her dark blond hair was cut short, but professionally styled to accent the slightly long face, strong jaw and pleasant green eyes.
“I apologize for the misguided instructions from the crew,” she said. She turned to the armed woman who was still hovering close by and said, “At ease, Reinholt.” Then, “Roz Reinholt, this is Jean Groff. She is to have every, and I mean, every courtesy extended to her. If she tells you to jump over the side, you will do it with a sincere smile and wave happily as you go. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, aye, Ma’am,” said Reinholt, bring her heels softly together, ducking her head in a bit of a bow and extending her hand to Groff. “I apologize for being rude,” she said quietly, all animosity gone instantly from her expressionless face.
“Apology accepted,” said Groff, taking the offered hand, shaking it with sincerity and looking the other woman in the eye. “What an odd group,” Groff thought. “These women conduct themselves more as a military organization than as a pleasure craft crew.”
“You may resume your station,” said Ingram.
Reinholt turned on her heel, giving Groff a passive look and went back to standing beside the redhead at the control panel.
“Mr. and Mrs. Norquist,” said Ingram quietly to Groff, “are still ashore and should be back soon. They went up to Fort Lauderdale in Fast Boat. Has the launch left the club dock yet, Roz?”
“Not yet, Captain. We had a radio check… ah,” she glanced at her expensive-looking dive watch. “…exactly on the half hour and Jenna was still dockside at Pier 88, awaiting their return.”
Groff focused a moment on the watch, instantly recognizing the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore chronograph and wondering how a crew member, even an officer on a mega yacht like Altuna, could afford such an expensive timepiece. Groff recalled that the same make and model, €25,000 timepiece had played a part on a recent investigation she handled in Bonn. She also remembered that a popular member of the German parliament, accused of taking the watch as a bribe, made the mistake of being seen once too often with the ostentatious timepiece on his wrist.
“Good,” said Ingram. “Check again at forty-five and let Chief Engineer Thomasa know we will power up as soon as they are aboard. In this current is not where I want to be tonight.”
“Aye, Captain,” Reinholt said smartly.
“Miss Groff, would you like a quick tour while we wait?” Ingram asked amicably.
“Is Bibi Lynx here yet?” Jean asked.
“Yes. I think she is in her cabin and is at least one guest who obeyed orders,” Ingram said, smiling. “Do you want to call her?” she asked, pointing to the wireless intercom phone on the bulkhead. Not waiting for an answer, she picked up the phone, pushed two buttons and handed the handset to Groff. The phone rang twice and Bibi answered.
“Hello. This is Lynx.”
“Hi,” said Groff in a friendly tone. “You beat me here.”
“Yup. I’m soaking in the tub, trying to get the Miami slag off. Come on down and join me if you want. This tub is big enough to hold a reunion party.”
“The captain is going to give me a tour and then I’ll stop by. See you in…” Jean hesitated, looking questioningly at the Captain.
“Thirty minutes,” Ingram said. “It’s the short tour. More details later.”
“Thirty minutes,” Groff said and hung up the phone. “Let’s go,” she said to Ingram, giving a parting wink to Reinholt who was back at her post beside the duty helmsman.
As they left the wheelhouse, Groff stopped and faced the Captain.
“I don’t mean to be an ass or cause trouble,” she said. “But do I detect a certain animosity towards me?”
“I think ‘unjustified suspicion’ is probably a more exact description of the crew’s attitude,” Ingram said, looking out on the harbor. “This is a good crew, but they have some issues that I haven’t yet completely figured out. There have also been some incidents, which, by the way, led to your being hired.”
Groff nodded. “I know. The briefing documents detailed some of that.”
“Right,” Ingram said leading the way forward. “As you probably know, it is becoming more and more difficult to get bonafide American crew for any vessel, no matter what we pay. Foreigners have really taken over the seas, even the private yachts, and each year we find that we must adjust some of our requirements downwards or sail without a full complement.”
“Sounds like the general situation across the U.S. maritime range, as well as for the American military,” Groff remarked. “I did considerable study before I agreed to take this job. Obviously, I am not a sailor, but I was surprised to see that, other than its Navy, the United States really has no marine presence at all. Finding acceptable and qualified females for crew has got to be very difficult. By the way, why all women?”
“To answer your questions: yes,” answered Ingram, starting down the exterior ladder towards the bow. “You are quite right on both counts. Too few American women see this as a career and fewer yet have the educational, physical and mental qualifications to serve on a private vessel like this. As you pointed out, the American military has had the same problem for years. To get the volunteers they need, they continue to lower their standards and end up with a cross section of good and bad. We are in the same boat, literally and figuratively. We expect more from crew than being able to handle a docking line and chip paint,” she hesitated and waved her arm towards the yacht’s impressive length aft. “And, as you know, Altuna is neither built nor registered in the U.S. Responding to labor unions, the American laws and regulations pretty much drove both private owners and the big steamship companies out of business or they took their boats elsewhere. Ships of this character and size are today built in Germany or Holland, with a few exceptions.”
“I’ve seen some Italian yachts that looked pretty impressive,” Groff offered.