Crude Carrier (17 page)

XXII

Julie explained to Mack what Audrey Bennett had discovered about the captain of the
Aurora Victorious
.

“Where the hell did he get all that money? What's going on, Julie?”

“He's not the only one.” Beyond the glass door of the small sundries shop, the traffic of Great Russell Street hissed and rumbled.

“What do you mean?”

“Audrey also found out that the first mate, Gerald Pressler, recently sold his house in Folkston. He took quite a loss on it because it's near the Chunnel—all the residential property values dropped after the Chunnel went in. But he bought another place in Kent, outside Canterbury near Petham, worth twice as much. And he paid cash.”

The other end of the line was silent. The public telephone, more secure than a cell phone, was in an alcove just beyond this shop's small post office. Rows of newspapers filled a rack along the opposite wall. The other shelves held magazines, candy, tobacco, medical nostrums, toilet articles, and a variety of things people tended to carry in pocket or purse.

Finally he asked, “Anybody else become a big spender?”

“Funny you should ask. Marine Carriers's agent who sold the policy on the
Golden Dawn
, Mrs. Fleenor, paid off her daughter's medical bills three months ago. Seventeen thousand dollars. Know anything about that, Stan?”

“Dorothy? Aw, no—”

“That's a lot of money.”

“Where'd you get that information?”

“It came up on her credit history.” Julie added, “She bought a new car, too. Again: cash.”

“Aw, man, not Dorothy! Man, I should've caught that, but I never …”

Julie let her silence agree: Mack was right—he should have caught that.

“All right … I'll check out her finances in detail.”

“But wait”—her voice echoed a television pitch—“there's more. The widow of the captain of the
Golden Dawn
, Olivia Minkey, recently sold her house and moved to Rio. I'm trying to get a report on her lifestyle there.”

He considered that. “The
Aurora
and the
Golden Dawn
again. There has to be some kind of connection.”

“Right. I wish Bert had made more notes.” Not that the detective had expected to be killed. But Julie would have to reexamine all Herberling's papers, even the handwriting and stray pen marks for hints at any thoughts that lay behind the words on the page.

“Julie, if all these people are making that much money, we're talking a lot of money to be made. But I haven't heard anyone scream about losing that much. It's got to come from somewhere—I mean, it just doesn't grow on trees. A bite that big has to be hurting someone.”

“Three possibilities: One, the bitee can't make waves because it's illegal money. Two, the bitee's under threat of some kind if he does complain. Three, the bitee doesn't know he's been bitten.”

“You lean toward any of those?”

“Not yet. I want to go over Herberling's file again. And I'm hoping my dad has come up with something.”

“Get through to him again?”

“No.” She added, “Nothing from, and they're not answering calls.”

“That's worrisome.”

It was. More than Mack knew. “Especially since someone laid a hit on me.” She told him about the excitement at Hampstead.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Jesus. Well, I guess that means you're on the right track.”

“So was Herberling.”

“Yeah. Poor bastard. Do you want support, Julie? I have contacts there who owe me a couple of favors.”

“No. I can handle myself.”

The telephone was quiet a moment. “Okay—you're in the business, you know what you're risking. But keep looking over your shoulder, Julie.”

She intended to. “I'm building up some hefty costs for information, Stan. Both here and in Rio. It's more than my clients need, and more than I should bill them for. Can Marine Carriers Worldwide help? Even if we don't find anything against Hercules?”

“I'll talk to them—it's becoming their case, too. I'll see if they'll throw in something.” His promise was conditional, but not his next comment. “But if we do save Marine Carriers Worldwide money, there'll be plenty to cover those expenses.”

After she hung up, Julie stared at the cover of a magazine whose bare-breasted and whitely smiling model stared back for an equally long time. Then she put her BT card in the slot and dialed the office in Denver. If she were aboard the
Aurora Victorious
, she would be trying every conceivable avenue of communication. And she and her father often thought along the same lines.

XXIII

Shockley gave Raiford new off-loading figures to replace those currently in the Lodicator.

“This is what we're taking to the Caribbean now?” Raiford scanned down the printout that had arrived from London.

The second mate nodded.

“Won't Pierce have time to install these figures after he gets back? We're what, thirty, forty days out of the Virgin Islands?”

“First Mate wants the figures run now. Says do them before you leave ship. That's all I know.”

“Pierce's helicopter is the one that will take me to Cape Town, right?”

“Right. Two days from now.” Shockley cleared his throat. “Usually comes in midmorning, so you'll want to be packed up early.”

“Can't say I'll be all that sorry to leave the old
Aurora
. But it has been a real learning experience.”

“Just make certain you're packed and ready to go on time. And take everything—company policy is not to forward personal effects left aboard.”

“Right. Even my shadow.”

“Even that.” Shockley paused as if he were going to add something. Instead, he stared for a long moment at Raiford. The intent, worried look in his eyes gave way to some kind of blankness as if he willed something to be erased from his mind. Then he ducked through the loading control room doorway and closed it firmly behind him.

The mood at the evening meal was a lot lighter than it had been at breakfast. Even Raiford was included in general remarks that passed up and down the table. The cause, he noted, was Pressler. Though the first mate still ignored Raiford, he was in good spirits and laughed at something the dour chief engineer had muttered over his soup. The laugh wasn't an attractive sight, and there was a note of malice in the sound. But it was a welcome change from the icy silence of the preceding days, and Raiford guessed that the first mate's good spirits had been generated either by the thought of the supernumerary's coming departure or by adding up the man's share of the day's stolen oil.

“That was quite a maneuver today.” Raiford passed the bread across to Henderson. “Off-loading while we're under way.”

The junior engineering officer nodded and swallowed to clear his mouth. “Never lightered that way aboard any other vessel. Must save the owners a pile of money, though. No time lost tying up, no berthing or pilots' fees. Be a bit of a gamble in any heavier seas, though.”

“Has the
Aurora
ever off-loaded like that in bad weather?”

“Not since I've been aboard, thank God. Wouldn't want to, either. I don't care how much money it saves the owners. All it takes to set off an empty tanker is one tiny spark, and running that close alongside …” He shook his head. “Bad enough living on one of these floating bombs without banging two of them together.”

At the head of the table, Pressler, still smiling, caught the last words. “Just remember, young Mr. Henderson, you could well owe your job to today's little maneuver. Saving money for the owners might allow them to keep this old vessel in service for another couple of years. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Shockley, that the money's worth the risk?”

“Eh?” The second mate's pudgy cheeks turned pink. “Oh—yes. Of course.”

“Of course!” The fresh scar on Pressler's lip whitened with the stretch of his grin. “So you see, young Mr. Henderson, regardless of the weather—fair or foul—it pays us all to take a chance now and then. If the owners feel it's worth it, that is.”

“Yes, sir. I just meant I wouldn't like to off-load under way in foul weather. I mean, it really could be a dangerous maneuver in heavy seas.” He cleared his throat nervously and looked around the table for support. “Empty tanker alongside and all. Couldn't it?”

Pressler was still playing with the young officer. “Seafaring's a dangerous business in weather good or bad, Mr. Henderson. We take our pay and we take our risks. You can vouch for that, can't you, Mr. Bowman?”

The chief engineer's close-cropped gray hair tilted toward the table as he sopped up the remainder of his gravy with a piece of bread. “Don't like to tell you your business, Pressler. But it's getting on six bells.”

“So it is—so it is. All right, people, let's finish up so the steward can clear the mess.”

Anxious as ever to have the meal over, the steward hovered in the galley doorway. But despite his words, Pressler was in no hurry to finish his custard. The other officers were bound by custom to stay until the first mate rose to lead the parade into the wardroom for coffee.

“You'll be leaving us day after tomorrow, Mr. Raiford.”

“All good things must end, Mr. Pressler.”

The first mate, elbows braced on the table, folded his thick hands beneath his chin and nodded. Smiled. “Indeed so—indeed so.”

Raiford smiled in return. “But I've enjoyed the voyage—a real holiday cruise.”

The mate's good nature hardened into something else as his knuckles made a muffled crunch. But he kept smiling. “I'm pleased to hear that. And I hope no misunderstandings have clouded our acquaintance.”

“No misunderstandings at all.”

“Pleased, indeed.” He shoved his chair back. “Well, time to let the steward do his work, eh?”

This time, Raiford took his coffee in the wardroom instead of his quarters. Shockley, by himself at a corner of the bar, nursed a pint of bitters. He looked surprised and uncomfortable as Raiford settled on a stool beside him.

“First Mate seems jolly tonight.”

“Yes—ah—the offloading. … Yes.”

“Any last wishes by way of electronics?”

His pale eyes blinked as Raiford's words registered. “Last wishes? No—ah, I don't think so. I'll let you know in the morning. Be certain you pack up early—everything.” He dipped his face to his beer.

“I'll be ready. See you at breakfast.” Raiford heaved off the barstool.

Mouth full, the second officer nodded.

The silence of Raiford's quarters, emphasized by the steady wheeze of the ventilation system, allowed his mind to run free, and the coldest thought was that when Rossi went overboard, the
Aurora
could not waste time lowering a boat to pick him up. It would have taken time to unhook the hoses from the
Stormy Petrol
, miles to bring a ship the size of the
Aurora
to a halt, time to lower a boat and send it back, and more time to look for a single man in a wide ocean. Then bring both ships alongside once more, reconnect the hoses, and complete the offload. Ten, maybe twelve hours for the entire maneuver—another half day's sailing to cover up. Rossi simply had not been worth it, so they left him. Then they'd had to hide both the manner as well as the place of his death because the
Aurora
was not supposed to be doing what she was where she was.

So they made up the story of his fall down a ladder and his burial at sea.

A soft tapping broke into his thoughts. He opened the door to find Woody, eyes wide with anxiety. “Mr. Raifah, sah—Sam asks please you meet him tonight on fantail at two bells. Very important, please, sah. You meet him there, yes?”

“Two bells?”

“Very important, yes?”

“Sure, Woody.”

“Thank you, sah. Must go now.” The man almost sprinted down the carpeted hall toward the stairs as if Raiford might chase after him.

The sea wind was cold. No window showed light in the aft side of the bridge that towered above Raiford. At one in the morning, the only people awake were the navigation crew who would be on the bridge staring forward over the blackened foredeck. At the tip of the radar mast above the bridge, the middle running light made one of the brighter stars. Beneath Raiford's rubber soles, the steel plating quivered with the straining effort of the engines running near top speed. They were cruising two, maybe three knots faster than they had before, small hourly gains that—over days and nights of steady cruising—could add up to the one or two hundred miles the
Aurora
had swung off-course. If they were lucky, as Li had once mentioned, the retail price of oil might fall too low in the States and the
Aurora
would receive orders for slow steaming. Tankers in route provided oil companies convenient and relatively inexpensive storage for crude until America's refineries began to run short again and the price of gas or heating oil could be shoved back up a nickel or dime a gallon. It was a price manipulation conveniently outside the American jurisdiction and unchallenged by the large number of American politicians whose cozy ties to the oil industry gave them blind appreciation for its large donations to their reelection funds.

Raiford glanced at the dim green pips on his watch. Twenty after the hour and still no Sam. Stiff from the cold, Raiford moved out of the shadow of the boat davit toward the warmth of the nearest promenade. But before he reached it, something moved quickly along the rail toward him. Raiford ducked to meet the charging figure and felt the heavy, stunning blow of a club glance down the side of his head and deep into his shoulder. Through the flash of hot pain and flaring circles of red and yellow, he struck back with a reflexive jab. His fist banged solidly against flesh to knock away the attacking shape long enough for Raiford to clear his vision. A raised arm came toward him again and, pivoting, Raiford struck out with a sidekick that thudded all the way up to his hip. A whiny, grunting sound came from the shadow as it fell away, but running feet from the other side of the ship replaced it. Raiford snapped a frontkick that caught the middle of the new shadow and flung it, arms wide, to clatter heavily against the deck. But the first shadow was up and coming again, its club or iron bar humming savagely through the air.

Raiford caught a numbing blow on the back of his forearm and drove his other arm in a stiff-fingered, upward jab as deep as the assailant's lungs. He yanked his hand out of the soft flesh, hoping the shock would rupture the man's organs. A steamy breath spewed the odor of garlic as the club swung feebly at Raiford. He pivoted and cracked a sidekick at the nearest dimly seen leg, his heel jarring into bone and driving the shape down beside the scupper that echoed with the sound of the roiled sea hissing below.

The second man was on his feet with some kind of guttural noise. Raiford drove an elbow into his dim face before they grappled. Three shapes tangled with grunts and the smack of fists. Two figures broke away and the third, staggering back, dived in again, going low for the legs. The almost silent clump of struggling shadows jolted and reeled against the wire cable of the ship's open rail, and two shapes froze together in a sudden balance of locked arms. The third figure jumped hard at them, and arms and hunched shoulders broke loose again in a blur of movement that swung one of the shapes high over the rail. It hung, momentarily silhouetted against the night sky. Then it plunged wordlessly out of sight into the hissing turmoil of foam that sucked and bubbled along the hull.

Motionless, the two remaining figures stared down and back at the disappearing wake. Then one turned and sprinted for the nearest door, the other close behind.