Crude Carrier (6 page)

“Yes.”

“Well, I'd better get unpacked.”

“Right.” The pale blue eyes shifted Raiford's way for a second. “You'll want to read up on the equipment manuals. Had a spot of trouble with one of the relay switches in tank five. We'll want it looked at before we reach the next loading platform.”

IX

The broker who located cargo for Hercules Maritime's ships said he would meet Miss Campbell when the Baltic Ship Exchange closed at five. “Can you find my office?”

Julie had circled Mr. Braithwaite's address on her
London A to Z
map. “Shouldn't be a problem.”

“Excellent. I will look for you then and there.”

The circle on the map turned out to be more of a problem than she expected. Mitre Street, easy to miss, was one of those tiny avenues that bent between larger thoroughfares. It had originated, probably, as a medieval public path cut between land holdings. The address itself was tucked beyond a narrow vehicle tunnel leading to Mitre Mews. In fact, if her eye had not been caught by one of those pale blue historical markers—stating that the young journalist Charles Dickens often lunched on this site when it held the Pickwick House and Pub—Julie might have missed the alley. But Mr. Braithwaite waited patiently in his third-floor walk-up, cigarette smoke thick in the air and ragged stacks of paper and reference books contrasting with the tables full of up-to-date electronics. Each of two desks held sleek computer screens angled toward a comfortably padded swivel chair contoured like an astronaut's. A long table against a wall held additional modems, two fax machines, telephone answerers, printers, and even something that looked suspiciously like a security scrambler and decoder. Each desk telephone had about twenty service buttons, and a telex machine filled another corner.

“Ah, you found me! I was growing a bit worried.” He hopped up, youthful in movement despite the deep wrinkles of a chain smoker and hair that showed gray turning white. He had a white, clipped mustache that was fringed with nicotine and spoke of colonial service. “Bit difficult to locate, being in the mews and all, but a quiet location—delighted, Miss Campbell.” He held her hand for an extra second as if feeling the warmth of her young flesh. “Delighted!”

“It's kind of you to take time to see me, Mr. Braithwaite.”

“Not at all, dear girl. Not at all!” He pushed aside the book he was thumbing through—
International Shipping and Ship Building Directory
—and grabbed a dark blue blazer on a coat­rack. “Let's abandon ship before the blasted telephone rings. Sun's below the yardarm here, but not in New York or San Francisco, eh?” He jabbed another long cigarette butt among others that filled his ashtray, tucked his striped tie behind a pewter button, and herded Julie out the door.

To Braithwaite, Julie was “dear girl”—possibly, she thought, because he could not remember her name. As he guided them to his favorite pub he rhapsodized about America and things American. “Love Florida, dear girl! And my cousin lives in Los Angeles. I visit quite often—travel's the prerogative of a bachelor, isn't it? And I've even been to your wonderful Colorado: the Grand Canyon. Magnificent!”

The Grand Canyon, created by the Colorado River, was in Arizona. But Julie was reluctant to correct such enthusiasm. And even if she wanted to, the man would have been difficult to interrupt. Maybe because he worked in the shipping industry, Braithwaite had caught the Ancient Mariner syndrome.

The pub—the New Roses—was a short two blocks away on Leadenhall Street, busy with afternoon traffic flowing out of the city. Etched glass, brass lamps, and dark oak. No ferns. Ashtrays on every table. Julie had a shandy, the older man a whiskey and side of water, no ice. They found a less crowded corner away from the squawk and roar of an electronic fruit machine—“Blasted things are everywhere now, even here!”—and Braithwaite lifted his glass eagerly. “Chin chin!”

Julie sipped her cool, light drink and spoke quickly while the man's mouth savored his scotch. “Have you worked with Hercules Maritime very long?”

“Oh, yes. Since they began in, I believe, 1988. They're one of our smaller clients, but steady. They've managed to stay afloat in these perilous times.”

“The industry is in difficulty?”

“Very much so. Even the bulk liquid fleets. As late as 1980, the British fleet had almost fourteen hundred vessels flying the red duster. The number now is less than three hundred. All the owners are moving to flags of convenience and crews of convenience—can't afford not to. British Petroleum flagged out its entire fleet as early as 1986.” He lit a cigarette, the alcohol on his breath sending a tiny plume of flame off the end of the tobacco.

“But Hercules Maritime is in good financial shape?”

“I'm not privy to their accounting books, dear girl. I deal only with their freight contracts. However, their ships are seldom idle.”

“Did you arrange charter for the
Golden Dawn
?”

He nodded, pursed lips sending out a stream of smoke. “Bauxite out of Fremantle, aluminum ingots from Abu Dhabi to Seoul. I was seeking a cargo in the China Sea for her return to Fremantle when I heard of her loss. Terrible, of course—all hands. An all too familiar story, now. It's these flags of convenience, dear girl. Crews aren't trained as well as they used to be, equipment isn't surveyed as rigorously. But the sea is as unforgiving as ever.”

“Accidents have increased?”

“Oh, yes! In my thirty-some years, we've had a growing number off the coast in our own waters. You're much too young to remember the
Torry Canyon
going aground in 1967. Nothing like your
Exxon Valdez
, of course—only thirty thousand tons of oil spilled. But shocking at the time and a precursor of things to come: Liberian registry. In 1970, fourteen seamen died when the
Pacific Glory
and the
Allegro
collided off the Isle of Wight—both Liberian flag tankers. A year later, another Liberian tanker, the
Amoco Cadiz
, ran aground off Brittany with a large spill. In 1987, the
Skyron
—Liberian again—and the
Hel
—Polish—collided in the Channel off Folkston. Less than two years later, the
Phillips Oklahoma
and the
Fiona
—Liberian and Maltese flags of convenience—collided and created a twenty-mile oil slick off the Humber estuary.”

He wet his throat with a quick sip and started up again before Julie could slip in a question. “In 1991, the
Zulfikar
—Cypriot flag—was running in the Channel at speed without adequate radar, watches, or even lookouts, and sank a trawler. Killed six fishermen. Six months later, the trawler
Ocean Hound
went down in the Dover Straits, hit-and-run by a vessel that failed to render help or even report the collision. Most likely, it was a flag of convenience VLCC so large it didn't even know it had run over the trawler. Killed all five lads, nevertheless. Two years later, the
Braer
grounded and broke up off Shetland: eighty-five thousand tons of crude spilled. You guessed it: Liberian flag. Then the
Tharos
collided with the
Cam Sentinel
at an oil platform off Scotland. And not two years after, the
British Trent
and the
Western Winner
collided. Both flags of convenience. And you of course know what happened recently off Spain's Atlantic shore. Were any of those vessels insured by your company?”

“Not that I know of. But I wonder if—”

“Not coincidentally, vessels that fly flags of convenience usually have crews of convenience. The
British Trent
, registered in Bermuda, had British officers but a crew from Sierra Leone. The
Western Winner
was registered in Panama, officered by Koreans, and crewed by Burmese.” He shook his head. “All those accidents were the result of human error, which comes when you have mixed crews who can't speak one another's languages. And poor training—or none at all. Drink up, dear girl. It's not often I have the pleasure of conversation with a lovely and intelligent young lady.”

“Have you sailed on many ships?”

“Oh, no. I used to be dreadfully ill just crossing the Channel on a calm day. Thank heavens for the Chunnel. I've never boarded a vessel and have absolutely no desire to. Prefer to fly. Much quicker. Besides, I know far too much about the safety records of vessels. But damned little about aircraft. Makes me feel a bit more comfortable. Fool's paradise, eh? No, I'm no sailor. All I do is send the ships where the cargoes are.”

“You handle the
Aurora Victorious
as well?”

“Certainly. Though she's currently on a time charter, so there's little call for my services until the time's up. The Arabian Gulf to the Mexican Gulf, carrying crude for BP. I think the contract lasts another sixty-five weeks. Though I'd have to glance at the charter party to be certain. Does your company need that information? Most willing to cooperate with the underwriter chaps. And I must say”—he reached to pat the back of her hand—“you're a most attractive underwriter's representative.”

“Thank you. Did you hear anything about the death of their third mate?”

“Only that it occurred. Tragic, of course, but not surprising. The world's tanker fleets lose up to three hundred men a year, and climbing. Collision and explosion are the main culprits, caused by human error of course. Volatile cargo. Crews can't wear nylon shirts because static electric sparks from the cloth could set a tanker ablaze. Amazing, isn't it? And then there are the everyday casualties from slippery decks, heavy equipment, gassing—any number of clever ways a poor sailor can die.”

“Gassing?”

“Hydrocarbon fumes are quite toxic, and tank inspection is one of the most dangerous undertakings in a generally dangerous occupation. Has to be done of course, but even after flushing the fumes out of a tank, bubbles of the stuff can float about. Invisible but quickly lethal. Two or three lungs full and a chap's unconscious. Three or four minutes and brain damage occurs.” He added cheerfully, “Death comes after about six minutes. I've heard tanker men say they've asked their mates to let them die if they've been out for more than four minutes. Prefer death to being a vegetable, I suppose. Can't say I blame them.”

“Don't they have breathing gear?”

“Certainly—Drager equipment. But there's always malfunction and human error, dear girl. Human error always, aboard ship or aboard platforms like your famous Gulf spill, eh?”

“Do you know if Hercules Maritime has other claims pending with underwriters?”

“Claims?” It took him a moment to shift tracks. “Oh—the
Golden Dawn
. No, I suppose Lloyd's would know. They're the certification society Hercules Maritime uses for their vessels. Both the
Golden Dawn
and the
Victorious
were certified by Lloyd's.” He explained, “Shippers always ask for the vessel's certification society and the date of its last safety survey. These affect their insurance rates, you understand.”

“You have a very good memory for dates and details, Mr. Braithwaite.”

A blush made his mustache seem whiter. “Ah, no. It's my occupation, after all. And I studied Egyptian history at university—makes a chap absolutely reflexive in his use of memory, you know.”

“Egyptian history?”

“Yes. So how did I become a shipping agent? Needed a job, dear girl. Would much preferred to have been a university don, but not much call for Egyptologists. However, it turned out to be good training for what I do: close and quick reading, exercise of memory with a plethora of arcane detail. Must be a bit like your work, eh? Investigations, names and dates, seemingly­ irrelevant details, that sort of thing?” He toasted her with his glass. “Seems a bit odd, a girl as young and attractive as you being an investigator. It's certainly no longer the world I grew up in.”

“Almost as odd as an Egyptologist becoming a shipping contractor.”

“Eh? Oh. Hadn't thought of it that way. I suppose you needed a job too, eh?”

“Have you spoken to other investigators about Hercules Maritime?”

“Your Mr. Herberling telephoned a fortnight ago, I think it was. Wanted what I had on the master and the officers of the
Victorious
.”

Julie remembered the photocopy of the wrinkled scraps of paper that had been found in Herberling's case notes. One page had held a list of names and addresses, some circled. The other page had her father's name and that of the
Aurora Victorious
. “Were you able to tell him anything?”

“I told him what little I knew about Captain Boggs and promised to try and find information on the others. But he's never rung back. I assume the information's become irrelevant.”

“Herberling was murdered last week.”

“Oh, my!” After a pause, Braithwaite finished his whiskey with a gulp and gazed away at a glass panel whose etching depicted gracefully intertwined roses. “Anything to do with—I mean, ah …”

“We've found no connection.” Nor was Braithwaite's report on Boggs found, either. “The police think it was a burglary.”

“But you have your suspicions?”

“Care to tell me what you came up with on Boggs?”

“Oh, certainly. He was made redundant when BP flagged out its fleet. Spent several years waiting for another command, I hear. A not unusual story, unfortunately. Finally came to Hercules Maritime as master of a midsize tanker, the
Shining Dawn
, and moved up to the
Aurora Victorious
.”

“Any personal or professional problems? Any history of indebtedness or credit problems?”

“I really can't say. Certainly no legal issues. Owners and insurers are very particular about that sort of data, they are. As for being in debt, I suppose four or five years without work would cause hardship. Don't see how it couldn't, unless he or his wife had other income, of course.” The cigarette paused just below the mustache as Braithwaite remembered something. “Which they might well have—their home is in Hampstead Heath. Rather posh area, so they must have money from somewhere.”