Crude Carrier (20 page)

XXVIII

November darkness comes early to London. Through the large, square windows of the fourth-floor office of Marine Carriers's London branch, Julie could see the glare of traffic and streetlamps glowing upward into the misty drizzle. Beside her at the large oval table that almost filled the spartan room, Mack—still partially on New York time—nodded affirmative to Lord Fensley's question. “Yes, I made the copy of the Rossi file myself. I can testify that it's true and complete. And the description of the
Stormy Petrol
sent by Mr. Raiford certainly fits that of the
Golden Dawn
.”

Lord Fensley, the company's senior solicitor in London, wanted to be legally certain that the discovery of Boggs's theft and the
Stormy Petrol
's history, would withstand any challenge by the defendants. Probable cause as a requirement for a legal search was a concept relatively new to British law, still undergoing definition, and an opposing counsel would certainly make use of all ambiguities. But Fensley saw the investigation into Rossi's death as a solid foundation to introduce—to Marine Carriers—the more important issue of motive for that death: insurance fraud and grand larceny. “I believe we can get by with your deposition, Miss Campbell.” The man smiled warmly at her, the neat wings of his gray mustache lifting over prominent eyeteeth. “That way you need not appear in court in person.”

And, Julie knew, it would also save Marine Carriers the expense of supporting a witness for a necessary though minor step in establishing the groundwork for a legal argument. She rubbed fingertips into her burning eyes and glanced one more time at her watch: three eighteen.

Mack, looking at his own watch, shifted wearily. He'd had no time to rest after his flight, and his face's gray flesh and day-old stubble showed it. “Can you call your contact in the Home Office again, Lord Fensley?” His finger tapped one of the many copies that had been made of Raiford's message to Julie. “Time—”

“… is of the essence, Mr. Mack. I fully agree. I made that quite clear to our—ah—contact, as you term him. I assure you, he understands and my badgering won't contribute anything other than irritation.” His smile at Mack wasn't quite as warm.

“Can he do it?” Julie asked.

“I see no legal impediment, my dear. There are clearly established precedents in both national and international law. The substantive issues are coordination and logistics, aren't they? But we won't know his success until he informs us.” He reassured her in a warm tone, “We've known each other since King's, and I have the utmost confidence in him, Miss Campbell. I'm equally certain your associate is faring well. He seems a most resourceful fellow—sending e-mail through a reserve modem—quite ingenious. I should like to meet him.” He, too, tapped the copy of Raiford's message. “Damned fine work, that. Now”—he rubbed his slender hands together with a dry, brisk whisper—“it looks as though we could all use a bit of refreshment. I'll have some biscuits and sherry brought up. Do you prefer dry or sweet, Miss Campbell?”

XXIX

Raiford stared up at the gray clouds scudding overhead. He was almost beyond feeling the wind, now. The skin on his arms was taut and cold and stiff as marble. Once more he tried to relax his back muscles to control the spasms of shuddering that rattled his heels against the icy steel of the crow's nest. He must have slept sometime during the long, long night, though he could not remember anything but cold and the occasional gouge of the digital camera stowed in his shirt. Sunset had been a slow ebbing of gray light, and sunrise came just as dull and lifeless. It might have looked this gloomy to Alfred. Raiford hoped not. He hoped that Alfred at least had clear skies for his death. But Alfred, too, would have been thirsty. Very thirsty. Thirstier than he'd ever been in his life. Or would be. Certainly Raiford was thirsty. Thirsty enough to mutter curses when Pressler, at early dawn, came out to the flying wing to call his name and toast him with a mug of steaming coffee.

Cold, too. Cold enough that bending his joints was an aching effort, and his hands—puffy and thick—did not want to close. But he would have to keep his mind off being thirsty and to ignore the cottony feeling in his mouth that made his tongue stick to his palate.

His lips twitched in a tight grin at the vision of Pressler lifting the steaming mug. “Oy—Raiford—to your health, man! A healthy but short life to you!” It was kind of funny. But it would be a lot funnier if it was the other way around.

Pressler had outsmarted him with the false announcement about the helicopter. He lured Raiford out and then swept the ship to nab him. Give the toad his credit. It was a trick Raiford would remember the next time he tried to escape from an oil tanker. Never go in alone; never go in blind. Well, he had, and here he was.

His dry, gummy swallowing was loud in his ears as he watched the bellies of the low, gray clouds sail overhead. Brighter, now. And maybe it was his imagination, but it felt a little warmer. Thank God it had not rained during the night. But a rain could slake his thirst, which he was not going to think about.

Below, staring up at him, an armed sailor stood guard. Probably Sung Ching—one of the crew that Pressler could trust. Maybe the one who had been with Alfred. And wouldn't it warm Raiford's heart to hear him bounce down the mast like Yun!

He would have to go down sooner or later. Pressler was right about that. He couldn't last much longer up here without getting hypothermic or delirious. Thirsty and very cold. Stiff. But as soon as he put a leg through the hatchway, Sung would sing. Might make it through one more day if the clouds kept the sun off. Last until dark, maybe. But Pressler would keep watch through the night, too. People he trusted. Sung. Shockley. Even Boggs, if necessary. Last night they had aimed the ship's starboard spotlight on the crow's nest, and all night Raiford had lain huddled from the wind and watched the radar screen just over his head flash in and out of the glare. It turned between four and five times a minute. Close to three hundred rotations an hour. Raiford had timed them. Shifting between imagined conversations with Julie and watching the radar screen. Flickering rotations as long as he could concentrate. Days as far back as he could remember. A summation of all his days. And to know that this cold, gray dawn could be his last.

He would have to go down soon. Be killed going down or stay and die of hypothermia. At least he wasn't in that cramped hole with the roaches. As he explained to Julie last night in the dark, he preferred to die out in the open under the sky. And that she, now able to take over Touchstone, should look for another partner. That thought was as cold as the wind that puckered his blue flesh, but he knew the truth of it. Life, in general, went on; his, in particular, might not. And he had no wish to impress on Julie or anyone else his will from the grave—no wish to condemn the surviving to live for the dead. Couldn't if he wanted to, so he might as well not want to.

XXX

After a conversation of short questions and long listening, Lord Fensley set the telephone back on its rest. His eyeteeth caught the light. “It's done.”

“He's off the ship?” asked Julie.

“No, no, my dear. The arrangements to remove him from the vessel are done. The operation itself hasn't commenced.”

“Oh.” She sank back in the upholstered chair.

“A few hours more, a bit of luck, and we'll have him safe and sound.” He sipped the remainder of his sherry. “We will, of course, wish to depose him as soon as possible. I've asked Reese to book an immediate flight from Cape Town.”

“Has Wood been arrested yet?” asked Mack.

Lord Fensley's smile shifted meaning. “At half past. He was found at home in Staines and is being held for arraignment by their constabulary. I'm assured their process will take the maximum amount of time and that he will be held incommunicado throughout.”

“May I?” Julie gestured at the telephone.

“By all means.”

The information operator put her through to the police station in Rochester. Inspector Moore was still in his office. “What may I do for you, Miss Campbell?”

“It's what I can do for you, Inspector. A lead on the Pierce killings.”

“Ah? Go on, please.”

She told the listening ear about Hercules Maritime and the scheme involving the
Aurora Victorious
and the
Stormy Petrol
.

“Why didn't you give me this information earlier, Miss Campbell?”

“I didn't have the facts earlier.”

“And you suspect this man in the Hercules office of being behind the murders? Wood?”

“Yes.”

The line was silent. Moore either wrote or thought. “Your suspicions aren't enough to obtain an arrest warrant. But I will look into it. I ask that you stay away from any communication with Mr. Wood.”

“He's already in custody at the Staines police station.”

“What? On what bloody grounds? Do you realize the legal implications of interfering in a murder investigation?”

Julie held the receiver away from her ear as the tinny voice squawked. Fensley, eyebrows raised, gestured for the telephone and dangled it in two fingers until the squawking noises changed into repeated interrogation, “Miss Campbell? Miss Campbell, are you there?”

“Miss Campbell has turned the telephone over to me, Inspector. I am Lord Fensley and I am responsible for Mr. Wood's arrest. I make no apologies for it. He has been arrested on valid criminal charges as well as to protect the life of an agent aboard one of the vessels with which he is in close communication. If you wish to lodge a complaint about those actions, Inspector, please do so with me.” He listened to the reply. “Miss Campbell believed, and I concur, that you would want to interview Wood about your homicides. I suspect Wood knows a great deal about them. As Miss Campbell has dutifully informed you, the suspect is secure and available for your interrogation. And I will inform you right now that before I ordered his arrest, Miss Campbell told me nothing about a possible murder charge to be brought against the man.” A brief pause. “Yes, that's right, Inspector. … Not at all—I will pass on your apology.” He set the receiver gently on its rest and smiled at Julie.

XXXI

At first Raiford did not recognize the sound that ate into his now rambling conversation with Julie. It was faint and distorted by the strong wind, like the rapid flap of a pennant. Then it grew into a dull thud and he lifted his stiff neck to search the starboard bow for a moving spot that could be the flight from Cape Town.

“The bloody helicopter's here, Raiford. Come on down!”

Pressler's shout was followed by the pop of his pistol. The round stung somewhere close beneath the platform. Raiford peeked over the lip of steel to see the first mate say something to the guard, emphasized by the hard thrust of a broad finger toward the radar mast.

Tilted slightly against the strong crosswind and some two hundred feet above the slate-gray sea, a helicopter came rapidly from the west. It was larger than Raiford expected—designed for long flights and heavy loads—and moved fast. Instead of a bulbous Plexiglas nose, the aircraft had twin rotors and a capacious fuselage. Dull black, it held few markings and numerals.

At a distance, it circled once around the
Aurora
and Raiford's fingers played stiffly with the flare pistol. But any signal would be ambiguous. The pilot might even think he was being warned away, and God knew Raiford didn't want to make that mistake.

Slowing, dropping closer, the aircraft turned into the brisk spray thrown across the deck from the bow wave. Cautiously, it neared to hover over the peeling white
X
painted in front of the loading manifold. But instead of landing, it continued to drift slowly back toward the bridge, wagging slightly in the stiff wind as the pilot tickled its controls. Its rotors made twin circles of yellow blur that reflected in the deck's wet green. Then it poised above the slowly rising and falling ship as if timing its drop to the deck.

But it didn't touch down. Instead, two lines snaked out of the open doors in the fuselage and figures bulky with equipment and weapons slid rapidly down the ropes like dark drops along strings. They hit the deck and sprinted across the green steel and out of sight under the ship's island.

A landing party! Raiford watched as more figures wearing flak jackets and helmets dropped in pairs and dashed out of his sight. Then the helicopter quickly roared up and away from the vessel, the trailing lines hauled in by the door gunner as it swung aft the ship to dance from side to side, rising and dropping, never still enough to become a target as it hovered like a giant black seagull over the boiling wake.

Raiford peeked down at the wings of the bridge. Empty. The guard had disappeared.

Forcing his clumsy and unwilling hands to grip the icy steel rungs, he tried to hurry down the mast. But his numb feet kept slipping, and at one point he dangled by blue fingers as his plimsoles scratched for a purchase on one of the thin rungs. He dropped the last three feet, sprawling on the deck, his icy legs crumpling weakly. From the navigation bridge, he heard the crash of glass and shouted orders and the thump of heavy boots charging across steel decks. Then more shouts and a loud crack. An instant later, thick white smoke billowed from a deck below and the wind tore it into shreds and wisps of disappearing steam. Another garbled shouting and then silence. Raiford, shivering uncontrollably, stumbled for the ladder way, his eyes burning from tear gas.

XXXII

Raiford did not want to get out of a helicopter only to board another for a flight to Cape Town followed by a much longer flight to England. He was hungry, his joints ached, he damn near had pneumonia, and in the three hours since his rescue, he hadn't stopped shaking from the cold. And England in October had no place to get warm. He intended to go from Port Elizabeth to Cape Town, find a hot tub, and spend twenty-four hours slowly thawing in the warmth and flowers of spring.

But Marine Carriers insisted. Someone named Fensley repeated that the legal clock was running, and that the charges against Wood and the
Aurora
's officers had to be filed or the suspects released. The information Raiford had sent was fine, the photographs he just e-mailed were spot-on, but his testimony as an eyewitness would be needed. They wanted him in person immediately, if not sooner, in order to craft the strongest possible legal case and to prevent the miscreants from fleeing the country. His flight from Cape Town would leave in four hours. He was further reminded that Marine Carriers not only paid for his rescue, but also arranged—through delicate and friendly contact between the South African, British, and Liberian governments—for Royal Marines to fly from Port Elizabeth to board the
Aurora Victorious
, which flew the Liberian flag. It had been to protect British property and British lives, as allowed by the slight twist to an old clause of international law: to wit, to guard a sailing vessel's crew seeking water or provisions, a nation's marines could go armed on any foreign territory without a declaration of war.

Raiford knew that the only British lives they wanted to protect were the ones arrested by the marines: Boggs, Pressler, Shockley, and Bowman. If any of the other officers had been involved, the ringleaders had not named them. The junior officers, who expressed shock and surprise but gave no confessions, remained to run the ship while waiting for additional officers to be flown aboard. Which, apparently, both Marine Carriers Worldwide and Hercules Maritime wanted. The very valuable British property the marines had risked their lives to protect still had to get safely to the Virgin Islands.

That was all well and nice, and Raiford was immensely grateful. However, his employer was not Marine Carriers but Mr. Rossi. Moreover, he was still shaking with cold, and he was not getting on that flight tonight. Good-bye. Three minutes later, Julie called to welcome him and to pull together the threads of the case. “The police have a lead on who killed Pierce and his family.”

“Pierce? Pierce is dead?”

She told him about the massacre. “Inspector Moore said Wood spilled the whole story for some kind of break. Cooperating with authorities and so on. The killer's one Mark Rainey.” Who, Julie knew, was a pretty good hand with a knife, as well. “They haven't picked him up yet, but with his record it won't be long.”

“Did he kill Herberling, too?”

“Wood says he wasn't supposed to—that he didn't order Rainey to kill anyone.”

“Right. He only told Rainey to whisper sweet nothings in their ears.” Then, “Do you think Rossi was in on the oil theft?”

Julie paused. “I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe he was valuable because of his ignorance about tanker operations. Too new and too dumb to understand what was going on—that would explain why he was hired as third mate and his certification papers accepted without question.” Her voice held a shrug. “That's what we can tell his parents, anyway.”

“Let's leave out that part about him being too dumb. What about the sailors? When they saved my butt, they saved Maritime's stockholders a big penalty on the stolen oil as well as on the
Golden Dawn
claim.”

“The company president, Eliot, said they'd get an extra month's pay.”

“Thirty bucks?”

“Better than nothing. Oh—Mrs. Fleenor—remember her? Marine Carriers' agent who sold the insurance policy on the
Golden Dawn
? She had nothing to do with the theft. She had a settlement from some medical insurance squabble over standard versus experimental treatment on her daughter. That's where she got the money to pay off her daughter's hospital bills.”

Raiford wasn't quite sure what Julie was talking about, but she sounded happy about it, so he felt happy. And it would become clearer when they finally got together and talked further­. “Have they found the
Stormy Petrol
yet?”

“No. Mack says it's the
Golden Dawn
with a new name. Your description and the photographs fit perfectly. They've alerted harbor authorities from the Indian Ocean to the South China Sea. Mack thinks it might even be on a Bangladeshi beach, being cut up for junk. Oh, and the Brazilian liaison is waiting for Captain Minkey to show up in Rio.” She asked, “When will you get here, Dad?”

“Not for a few days, Julie. I couldn't have lasted much longer, and I'm still thawing out. You rescued me just in time, sweetheart.”

“That was Lord Fensley. He arranged for the marines to land.”

“Just who is that guy?”

“Marine Carriers' chief solicitor in London.”

“Thank him for me.”

“I will.” She added, “He's invited me to stay at his estate in Surrey until you get here. To look at his horses.”

“To what?”

“Look at his horses. Since you're in no rush to come back to London, he said I'm very welcome to relax there with him until you arrive.”

“You want to spend a few days relaxing with this Lord Whosis at his estate? To look at horses?”

“His stable has a champion stud. He seems quite nice. Lord Fensley, that is—I'll have to find out about the stud.”

“A champion stud … and quite nice … Well, I don't feel so cold anymore. I can make that flight if I leave right now. I'll see you tonight!”

Julie smiled at the silent telephone and then at Lord Fensley. “He's over his chill.”