34 - The Queen's Jewels (11 page)

“I beg your pardon.”

“Posters, playbills mostly,” Michael said. “My specialty. I’m not up to speed on”—he waved his hand toward Harry—“antique jewelry.”

“I see,” Harry said, returning the ring to his finger. “Don’t know how you manage to have a shop with such a narrow focus. You must be a superb salesman.”

“Wendell has very special clientele,” I put in.

“He must have,” Jennifer said. “By the way, Harry, that ring is Art Deco, platinum and diamond. It’s pre-1940 and worth about twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“It is? How nice to know.”

We were well into our entrées when Kiki announced that she wasn’t feeling well and was going to her cabin.

“She’s been queasy ever since we left port,” Jennifer explained as Kiki excused herself and left.

“She needs a stabilizer,” Harry offered.

“Stabilizer?” Haggerty said.

“Half port, half brandy,” Harry explained. “Works wonders. They call it the ‘stabilizer’ on most ships’ bar menus. Of course, Sir Isaac Newton had the best remedy. He said that the perfect solution for seasickness was to sit under a tree.”

This led to a discussion of how to prevent seasickness: Dramamine, wristbands, or ginger. The results were mixed.

I was well aware that unlike the previous evening when Kim made a point of coming to our table and suggesting we continue the night as a group, he stayed away this evening. I can only describe the mood at his table as somber, and at one point Betty snapped at one of the bodyguards, who left in a huff.

“Well,” Haggerty said after we’d finished our desserts and coffee, “off to the Queens Room for more dancing?” He directed the question at Jennifer, who, it seemed to me, had become smitten with my dashing friend from MI6. She had laughed at every one of his quips, including those that weren’t funny, a sure sign of infatuation. The feeling was clearly mutual. Michael had obviously succeeded in establishing a flirtatious relationship with her.

“You, Jessica?” Michael asked.

“I think not,” I said. “I read in the program that the ship’s resident string quartet is performing this evening in the Chart Room, followed by a jazz trio. I’m in the mood for listening music, rather than dancing music.”

“Mind company?” Harry Flynn asked.

“I’d love it,” I said.

We caught the end of the quartet’s performance and waited for the jazz trio to get set up on a small bandstand. Harry took advantage of the lull in the music to tell me a story about how he’d personally encountered pirates off the African coast, and how he and the rest of the crew had managed to fend them off. It was a gripping tale, and I hung on every word.

As the trio began to play its first tune, “Autumn Leaves,” a song I’ve always loved, I saw a familiar figure enter the room. Kiki Largent was obviously feeling better and had changed her mind about going to her cabin. I thought nothing of it, until a second familiar person walked in not far behind her. Then I sat up straight and took notice. It was Uri, the intelligence agent who’d followed Michael and me in London. What was he doing here? Was he still tailing Michael?

Harry noted my new focus and joined me in looking in their direction.

“Appears that she’s recovered,” he said. “Maybe she found a tree to sit under.” He laughed at his own joke.

I raised my shoulder and twisted in my seat, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. I must have succeeded because they both walked past without a sideward glance in our direction. Kiki moved with purpose, as though she wanted to get someplace in the shortest time possible without breaking into a run. Uri, who’d replaced his long black coat with a gray sport jacket worn over a black polo shirt, but wearing his yarmulke, plodded after her. I hadn’t realized when seeing him in London just how big a man he was. His bearlike physique made it difficult for him to go unnoticed, but there were so many people in the bar, perhaps he was successful in concealing himself from his quarry.

“Would you excuse me for a few minutes, Harry?” I said.

“Of course. The powder room?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Do you know where the term ‘powder room’ comes from?”

“No, I—”

“It has nothing to do with a place where women can retreat to powder their faces.”

Kiki had stopped just outside the door to the room near the photo shop, where cameras and other photographic paraphernalia were sold. Uri turned as if suddenly interested in the musicians.

“The name originated in forts where certain rooms were designated as dry storage areas for gunpowder,” Harry said. “I remember once when a woman mistook the sign over a door in an old fort as an indication that even back then they were concerned with providing proper accommodations for the female sex.”

“Fascinating,” I said, meaning it, but anxious to see where Kiki and Uri were headed. “Please excuse me.”

“Of course,” Harry said, rising as I vacated my seat. “I have a nephew who’s a jazz musician. I’m especially fond of the music.”

I went to the Chart Room’s entrance but hung back so that I could watch Uri tail Kiki without them seeing me. Kiki moved into the photo shop. Uri followed, pretending to peruse cameras in a display case. I fell in behind.

Kiki stopped and looked around, as though unsure where to go next, or possibly to see that she wasn’t being followed. Uri turned his back to her. So did I. She then walked away in the direction of Sir Samuel’s wine bar, a tribute to Cunard’s founder, Samuel Cunard, with Uri in pursuit. I debated continuing. I didn’t want to leave Harry Flynn alone for too long. But he seemed the understanding type, and also appeared to have settled in nicely to enjoy the jazz. He didn’t need me for that.

The three of us proceeded through the Mayfair Shops to the Grand Lobby, where Kiki rang for an elevator. I took a box from a shelf in the store, pretending to look at it while checking Uri to see what his next move was. He did what I did, watched Kiki get into the elevator and disappear behind the closing doors. My eyes went to the floor numbers displayed above the elevator. It went directly to Deck Seven, the highest deck served by that bank of elevators.

“That shaving kit is usually meant for men,” a sales-woman said to me. “I saw you studying the label. Are you looking for a man’s gift?”

“Not today,” I said, returning the box to the shelf and hurrying from the shop.

When the next elevator door opened, I dashed in front of a group of people who had been waiting patiently and, ignoring scowls aimed at me, huddled in the corner of the cab as the others squeezed in, last of all Uri. Everyone exited at Deck Seven.

There was no sign of Kiki. Uri entered the area called Kings Court, a twenty-four-hour food court that served a wide variety of ethnic dishes—pizza, Chinese, salads, burgers, and other simpler fare than the formal dining rooms. I followed him. As I did, I saw Marcia Kensington sitting alone at a table far removed from where I was. I then spotted Kiki standing in front of a set of doors leading to the Outdoor Promenade. Uri saw her, too, and stopped. So did I.

Despite the captain’s PA announcement earlier in the day that outdoor areas were closed until further notice, Kiki skirted a temporary sign that read DECK CLOSED DUE TO WEATHER, pushed through the heavy door, and stepped into the night.

Uri seemed confused about what to do next. I waited until he finally ducked into a bay of tables that were set up along a line of windows. I pulled a foldout map of the
QM2
from my purse and held it in front of my face as I positioned myself at another window, hoping not to be seen by him. But he was so intent on Kiki, I needn’t have bothered.

The scene on the deck was straight out of a gothic movie. A dense fog had settled in, shrouding everything in ghostly gray and rendering the exterior lights almost useless. Kiki leaned into the fierce wind and made her way to a nearby alcove that shielded her somewhat from the gale. Engulfed in fog, she was almost invisible to me from my vantage point, but not completely. What surprised me was that there was another figure already in that alcove, a form so vague that it was impossible to determine who it was, even whether it was male or female. Kiki extended her arm, and the other person did the same. They’d exchanged something, but I couldn’t tell who’d offered it and who was on the receiving end.

Kiki left the protection of the alcove and was buffeted by the wind as she made her way back to the door. I slipped behind a pillar and held my breath. The wind slammed the door closed, and she walked quickly past me, her black shirt and hair gleaming with water. I waited. Uri was next to pass. I turned back to the window in the hope of seeing who it was that Kiki had met with, but there was no sign of him, or her.

My final glimpse of the pair was at the staircase leading to the Grand Lobby. I saw the back of Uri’s head as he descended the stairs, and assumed Kiki had preceded him. I considered following after them but decided against it. If Kiki had left the dinner table in order to rendezvous with this other person, she’d accomplished her mission and was probably on her way back to her stateroom. As for Uri, simply knowing that he was on the ship was discovery enough for the night. I glanced to where I’d seen Marcia Kensington, hoping I hadn’t attracted her attention. She was gone.

I returned to the Chart Room to find that Harry had left. Our waiter from earlier that evening handed me a folded sheet of paper. “The gentleman asked me to give this to you should you return.”

“The music is grand, Jessica, but I felt the pull of the craps table and decided it was useless to resist. I’ll probably cap off the evening with a drink in the Commodore Club. Please join me in either place. But if not, I certainly understand. Hope you don’t have a touch of mal de mer, but if you do, try a stabilizer. If not, see you in the morning. Harry.”

It didn’t sound as if Harry was annoyed by my sudden absence. However, I owed him an apology the next time we were together. I debated joining Haggerty and Jennifer Kahn, who were likely to be dancing in the Queens Room. Did Haggerty know that Uri was on the ship? If so, he’d never mentioned it. Why not? I’d have to ask him, but tomorrow was time enough to talk, particularly if I could get him alone for some frank conversation.

I went to my cabin and stepped out onto the balcony. It was cold and damp; would this foul weather stay with us for the remainder of the crossing? I retreated back inside, got into my pajamas and the fluffy robe provided by Cunard, and sat at the small desk, my mind still turning over the events of the evening.

Whom did Kiki Largent meet on the deck, and why had they chosen such an uncomfortable setting for their brief encounter?

Did Kim’s sudden change in behavior toward me signify anything, or was he merely reflecting his companion’s mood?

Why did Uri—and I wished I knew his last name—find Kiki to be of sufficient interest to follow her around the ship? Had he been following Michael in London in the hope that my MI6 pal would lead him to her?

My idyllic crossing on the
Queen Mary 2
was turning into something quite different from what I’d anticipated. Maybe I did carry some sort of curse that led me into these situations.

I checked out movies playing on the TV and found none of them to my liking, but when I returned my eyeglasses to my purse, I found the DVD given me at Tom Craig’s dinner party by the husband-and-wife filmmakers, Madge and Gerald Wilson. I slipped it into the DVD player provided in every stateroom and pressed play. It took only a few minutes for me to become captured by the documentary, which cut back and forth between British authorities and two North African drug smugglers, who appeared on camera with their faces obscured by an electronic pattern to conceal their identities. I’m always impressed with how documentary makers manage to convince lawbreakers to speak freely about their nefarious activities, even with faces masked out. Halfway through the DVD Gerald Wilson interviewed two very young women who’d been enlisted by the smugglers to carry their contraband into the UK. Their stories were heartbreaking, girls no older than teenagers putting their lives at risk for money. They’d come from harsh, poverty-stricken backgrounds, the lure of the smugglers’ money too tempting to ignore. Toward the end, one of the smugglers justified his use of these young, vulnerable women as drug carriers: “The trick is to use people who the authorities are not likely to suspect, young, pretty, wide-eyed women with no criminal backgrounds.”

The documentary ended. It had been an emotional, wrenching story expertly told by the Wilsons, and had inspired me to get hold of a copy of the book on which it had been based.

I still wasn’t ready for bed and pulled out my lecture notes for the next day’s talk in the planetarium and soon became lost in them, a welcome respite from the dark thoughts with which I’d been consumed from recent events on the ship, magnified by the documentary I’d just watched.

But every now and then when I looked up, I wondered,
Who sent me that strange note?

The curious cat—me—wanted to know.

 

I
put on my robe and slippers upon awakening the next morning and went to the balcony to check on the weather. The fog had lifted, the seas had calmed, and ahead of us was blue sky.

I considered calling for room service—such service is available on the
Queen Mary 2
twenty-four hours a day at no additional charge—but decided I’d better look for Harry Flynn to apologize for having abandoned him last night. By the time I’d showered, dressed, and reached the Princess Grill, everyone else had eaten and departed, including Harry.

“Were the two ladies who were at dinner with Mr. Jones last night here this morning?” I asked our waiter.

“No, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Jones and Mr. Flynn were the only two at breakfast.”

“Mr. Kim and his party?” I asked.