34 - The Queen's Jewels (13 page)

I had to laugh. “Where do you get your energy?” I asked as we neared the signing table.

“You mean for a man my age?”

“No, I—”

“For your information, Jessica, I recently turned eighty-two, a proverbial spring chicken.”

“Eighty-two going on forty-two,” I said.

“Exactly. I enjoyed your lecture.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You had the audience eating out of your hand.”

“It was a good audience.”

“Your fans are waiting, Jessica,” the social director said as we reached the bookshop and library, where the line of people holding my newest novel snaked out the door and down the corridor.

“I’ll leave you to your adoring throng,” Harry said. “See you at lunch?”

“I hope I make it on time.”

I watched him stride away, head up, arms swinging, whistling, a man at peace with himself and his world. But I was immediately reminded of the task that awaited me. I sat, pen poised, and began the enjoyable process of inscribing books.

After the last book had been signed and people dispersed, I thanked the social director and the wonderful bookshop staff and headed off to meet Haggerty in the Commodore Club. It was only two decks up at the same end of the ship as the bookshop, and I was there in minutes. Michael was seated at a window looking out over the expanse of water ahead of us. The fog over the ocean had lifted considerably, although Michael seemed immersed in his own grayness. I took an adjoining stuffed chair, exhaled, and said, “Uri is on the ship.”

“I know,” he said, not looking at me.

“You do?”

“Yes. I spoke with him this morning.”

I was surprised, considering how we’d played cat and mouse with the Israeli back in London.

“I followed him last night,” I said.

“Is that so? Why?”

“Because
he
was following Kiki Largent.”

“Oh.”

“You said you had something to discuss with me. It sounded serious.”

“Yes. You might say that, Jessica. I think my cover has been broken.”

“Oh? How do you know?”

“Someone went through my cabin last night while I was in the Queens Room with Jennifer.”

I sat up straighter. “Do you have any idea who it could be?”

“No. I thought you might have an answer.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why me?”

He turned to face me. “Because you’re the only one on this ship who knows who I really am.”

“First of all,” I said, lowering my voice so as not to be overheard, “to accuse me of revealing your true identity is ridiculous. Why would I ‘break your cover,’ as you put it? I haven’t talked about you—even as Wendell—to anyone.”

“Who else knows?”

I sat back and thought for a moment before answering. “Well, what about your spy buddy Uri? He certainly knows who you are.”

“He’s a professional. He’d never put a fellow agent in jeopardy.”

And you think I would?
I thought. But I didn’t voice it. I didn’t want to get into an argument with him. “What about a member of the crew?” I asked. “Is it possible that someone from your office informed Cunard of the real reason for your being on the ship?”

Michael grimaced. “We don’t operate that way.”

“Look, Michael, I’m sorry that someone went through your cabin, and I’m also sorry if your true identity may have been revealed. Frankly, I think a little personal introspection might be in order. You had a few drinks last night. Perhaps you wanted to impress Jennifer that you were more than an Irish antiques dealer, selling posters of
Gone with the Wind
and
Birth of a Nation
. Could it be that your male ego came to the fore?”

His grimace turned into an expression of disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even think such a thing of me, Jessica.”

“And I can’t believe that you’d think I’d go around telling people that you’re a spook.”

“I hate that term.”

“Sorry.”

“Did you find out why Uri was following Kiki?”

“No. She went out on the promenade on Deck Seven and met with someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. She gave him, or her, something. Or maybe he or she gave something to Kiki. I couldn’t determine that. It was too dark and foggy.”

“Sounds like the opening of one of your novels. ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’”

“Oh, Michael, please.”

“Just joking. Having someone search my cabin is serious stuff, Jessica.”

“You’re sure it happened?”

“Of course I’m sure. I always apply a wet strand of hair on my door and drawers. No doubt about it. The hairs were broken or had fallen off. Someone entered and snooped around.”

“Probably your cabin steward. They come and go all the time to service the staterooms. Where
is
your cabin, by the way?”

“Deck Ten, midship.”

“The deck under mine. Michael, I have a question.”

“Is there ever a time when you don’t?”

I ignored his sarcasm. “You hinted to me that you believe the stolen Heart of India and the person, or persons, who stole it—and killed its owner in the process—are on this ship. What makes you think that?”

He looked at me as though I’d said something stupid. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Look who’s on board. The diamond owner’s partner is here, and he’s London-based.”

“I agree that his presence is tantalizing, Michael, but—”

“You see, Jessica? You did it again. I must insist you call me Wendell.”

“Very well, Wendell. My point is that because this individual happens to be on this crossing, it doesn’t mean that he had anything to do with the diamond’s theft. It could be sheer coincidence.”

He shook his head. “There’s more to it,” he said, “things I can’t share with you.” He leaned close after surveying our immediate area and said, “We
know
that the diamond is on the
Queen Mary Two
.”

“‘We’?”

“MI6. Israel’s Mossad. The CIA. Scotland Yard. The Yard has come up with some solid leads and shared it with MI6. Doesn’t always happen that one government agency shares information with another, but in this case the stakes are sufficiently high to demand it. Trust me, Jessica. We
know
the diamond is on the ship, and that the person who stole it, who happens to be a cold-blooded killer
and
a provider of funds to terrorist organizations, is also here. Satisfied?”

“I—”

“Not only that, Jessica. We’ve learned that precious gems previously stolen throughout Europe often end up being smuggled into the United States by people who prefer to travel by ship, rather than by air. It’s become one of their MOs.”

Until that moment, the whole business of stolen diamonds and terrorist funding had been somewhat vague and conceptual for me. But Haggerty’s certainty cast a new spell over it for me, gave me a sense of purpose that I hadn’t felt to date, and I didn’t like it one bit.

I glanced at my watch; I’d promised Harry that I’d join him for lunch. “I’d better be going,” I told Haggerty. “Oh, if you don’t know, I guess I should tell you that when I went to my cabin this morning, there was some official activity concerning Mr. Kim’s room. Our steward, Rupesh, said he thought it had to do with something or someone missing. The staff captain was there along with a few others, and I saw Betty sitting on the bed in their stateroom. She appeared to be crying.”

“Something missing?” Haggerty said. “No idea what it was?”

“No. I’ve told you all that I know.”

I stood. “Coming to lunch, Mi—Wendell?”

“No. I have something else on my agenda.”

I reached into my purse, withdrew the photo of Dennis Stanton that I’d purchased in the photo gallery that morning, and handed it to Haggerty. “Have you seen this man on the ship?” I asked.

“No. Who is he?”

I said lightly, “I thought you might know. Just someone who looks like an old friend. I’m probably wrong.”

Haggerty looked skeptically at me. “He looks like he didn’t want his photo taken.”

“It does appear that way, doesn’t it? Well, I’m sure we’ll catch up later.”

As I stepped away, Michael said, “Take care, Jessica.”

My raised eyebrows invited clarification.

“These are bad people, Jessica. Watch yourself, and let me know if you come across anything that might be of help.”

I’d balked at helping Michael Haggerty when he’d first asked for my assistance.

I no longer felt that way. If he was right about the missing diamond, or diamonds, being on board, and that the person or persons responsible for stealing them and killing the owner of the Heart of India was a passenger—and if money from the gem or gems would go to finance terrorist groups—I now shared his sense of urgency.

“.... and so I had the pleasure of another tour of the bridge while you were signing books,” Harry told me as we were finishing lunch. “The master of this ship is a splendid fellow who was gracious enough to honor my credentials as a fellow ship captain. Quite an impressive array of equipment, and sharp-looking young male and female officers up there, Jessica. Everything and everyone spick-and-span. Do you know the origin of that phrase, ‘spick-and-span’?”

“No, I don’t think I do, Harry.”

“Goes back centuries. Nails used to secure timber planks on sailing ships were called ‘spicks.’ They called the timbers themselves ‘spans.’ Brand-new ships coming out of shipbuilders’ yards were said to be ‘spick and span new.’ They eventually dropped the word ‘new,’ and ‘spick-and-span’ came to mean something new and immaculately maintained.”

Dining with Harry Flynn was, as I’d come to expect, pleasant, relaxing—and educational. Because I’d arrived late, we had the table to ourselves. Jennifer and Kiki had been there earlier but, according to Harry, had eaten a quick lunch and left.

“Was Ms. Largent feeling better?” I asked.

“She seemed to be, ate what little she ordered and kept it down.”

“That’s good to hear.” I pulled Dennis Stanton’s photo from my bag and handed it to Harry. “You get around the ship quite a bit,” I said. “Have you seen this fellow in your travels?”

Harry pulled a pair of half-glasses from his pocket, the only acknowledgment to his age that I’d noticed since we set sail. “No,” he said, “can’t say that I have.” He started to hand the photo back to me but pulled it back for another close look. “Wait a minute, now. Maybe I have seen him,” he said, frowning down at the picture. “He looks like a fellow who has a cabin a few doors down from mine.”

“Where is your cabin?”

“Two decks below us on Deck Five.”

“Are you sure he’s the same man as in this picture?”

“I’m pretty sure. Who is he, Jessica? Is he bothering you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. He looks like someone I once knew.”

“A former suitor?” Harry asked with a knowing smile.

I shook my head. “Harry,” I said, “you’ve spent some time with Jennifer and Kiki. Have they spoken about their jewelry-design business?”

“A bit. Nothing specific. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

He scrutinized me for a moment before saying, “Why do I have this sneaky suspicion that you’re in the process of researching your next murder-mystery novel?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“When you look at people, it’s as though you’re attempting to read their minds, access their inner lives.”

“Really?”

“And your friend Wendell. He certainly asks a lot of questions.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well,” he said, “let me fill you in on some scuttlebutt that you might be able to use in your next novel. You know Mr. Kim, of course.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been told that he was the partner of the fellow murdered in London during the robbery of a very rare diamond.”

I wasn’t sure whether to acknowledge that I already knew, but decided there was nothing to be gained by feigning ignorance. “Yes,” I said, “I’d heard that, too.”

“Those two brutish fellows with him. Rough-looking chaps, wouldn’t you say?”

“They do look formidable.”

He came closer. “They use the gym. We were there yesterday, and I happened to overhear a bit of their conversation. Not that I was trying to, of course, but one of them was speaking in a rather loud voice. Hard to be heard over some of those machines. He was telling his partner that he wouldn’t mind if ‘the boss’—yes, that’s what he called him—he wouldn’t mind if ‘the boss’ got his the way Yang did.”

“Yang? Oh, the murdered owner of the diamond.”

“Exactly. I remember his name from newspaper accounts.”

“Yes. I do, too,” I said, purposely neglecting to mention my other sources of the story. “Did he say anything to clarify what he meant?”

“Not that I heard, but his meaning doesn’t take much of an imagination, does it?”

I tried to make light of it. “Probably had a bad day, that’s all,” I offered. “A disgruntled employee saying he’d like to kill his boss.”

“Well, I hope he doesn’t act on his feelings. By the way,” Harry added, “that young lady Ms. Largent was in the gym, too, lifting weights. I imagine she could hold her own against those big fellows. She raised those weights as though they were balloons.”

I could easily have sat there chatting with Harry for the rest of the day, but I wanted to squeeze in some of the remarkable range of activities the
QM2
had in store before the trip ended and we pulled into New York Harbor. That included attending the afternoon production in the Royal Court Theatre of a classic British comedy,
Hobson’s Choice
. A theatrical group from London’s Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, known as RADA, was part of the ship’s entertainment, and I was looking forward to enjoying a few hours of good theater, particularly since I’d lost my opportunity to see a play in London when I’d accepted Haggerty’s invitation to the Ivy. I’d seen the David Lean film version of
Hob-son’s Choice
many years ago, starring one of RADA’s most celebrated graduates, Charles Laughton, and thoroughly enjoyed it.