The Mountains Bow Down (21 page)

“I am York Meriweather, first purser.” He placed one hand to his chest, shaking my hand with the other. “I'm pleased to meet you, Agent Harmon. And I can assure you,
all
valuables will be secure in
my
office.”

“Thank you.” I placed the packages on his desk. He didn't bat an eye at the sorry state of my “valuables” in plastic laundry bags. “I don't doubt you, but may I see your safe?”

“Most certainly. I would not be offended if you doubted, after what happened today.” He swept a hand toward a powder-coated column that ran floor to ceiling. It had two locks. One looked like a regular numerical combination dial, but the other involved a bizarre key that the purser held up for my inspection. Six inches long, its brass teeth flared like curling wings.

“And, as you can see”—he pointed to my left—“we have video cameras aimed directly at the safe.” He pointed to my right, more cameras. The smile that spread across his face came slowly but was as blindingly bright as his uniform. “If I exit the office, an alarm system is set, backing up the two locks. Another alarm is set by the front desk.”

“Very thorough.”

He gave a slight bow, feigning modesty, then used the strange key to open the safe. The tumbler released with a heavy
clunk
and the door required both hands to open. Rows of safe deposit boxes were shelved above vertical dividers that held canvas money bags, the type used by banks. At the very bottom was open space.

“You should have no worries about theft,” said York Meriweather. “At least, not
here
.”

Geert and I made our way through the atrium, passing the little Frenchman who acknowledged Geert with a gaulic lift of the eyebrows. Geert's reply was even less friendly.

“Don't like him?” I asked.

“Gossips,” he spat. “Old ladies in Zeeland do not gossip like these people. Some kind of joke. Security's safe was broken into. Ha. Ha. I am not laughing. I will crush the person who did this.”

His already formidable back stiffened with defensive pride. I wasn't exactly sorry to see his humiliation; it pushed him lower on my list of suspects. For a man like this, no money was worth public shame, not even six figures of jewelry. And as we headed for the maintenance crew cabins, I felt a fraction of relief. One person, perhaps, could be eliminated from the list.

Perhaps
.

Outside the upscale Italian restaurant named Pellagio, Geert opened a door marked Authorized Personnel Only, stepping into the large kitchen. Waiters shuttled back and forth at high speed, balancing full dinner plates on both arms while dodging hollered comments from the chefs who guarded the enormous grills and ovens. The chefs wore toques and white jackets and yelled in Italian, furious Italian, where the romantic scooped lilts change into curses condemning a person to life without decent red sauce. Geert and I stood to the side like schoolkids playing double-Dutch rope, waiting for an opening. Suddenly we dashed through a cacophony of clattering plates, rattling utensils, and increased yelling.

And then, just as suddenly, it went quiet. The kitchen door had closed behind us and we were crossing through the bakery, the warm scent of bread floating on the air. Plump men in white shirts and houndstooth pants pulled racks of flaky croissants and golden buns from cavernous ovens.

My stomach went into full riot.

“Hungry?” Geert asked, glancing back.

I was afraid if I opened my mouth, drool would come out. So I said nothing. But Geert either heard my stomach or saw something on my face. Speaking in a foreign language to a baker whose merry cheeks rose with his smile, he wrapped three buns in butcher paper and handed them to me. I restrained a weep of gratitude.

Possibly it was the best bread I'd ever tasted. The light golden crust melted on my tongue, followed by the bread interior that was light as a marshmallow yet as rich as butter. I wanted to hum as we walked down a long tunnel. The ship's employees rushed past us in various stages of hurry. Some carried bags of rice the size of toddlers. Others pushed steel carts stacked with folded tablecloths and napkins—fresh from the laundry room, no doubt—while men in coveralls wheeled small Dumpsters, trailing putrid odors.

“This is called the Highway,” Geert said. “No public, no passengers allowed. It is our express lane from fore to aft. If I need to, I can get from one end to the other in less than four minutes.” He glanced at the remaining roll in my hand. “Unless I stop to eat.”

We took the same stairs Jack and I used to reach the laundry and passed a young woman wearing a two-foot-tall feathered headdress and a skimpy dance outfit. From under thick false eyelashes, she stole a sidelong glance at Geert, her tap shoes clicking on the metal stairs. There was guilt in her look, like a naughty kid passing by the school principal. How many dramas, I wondered, were taking place among the thousand-member crew?

Grand larceny might be one.

But what about murder?

On Deck Three Geert lifted the clipboard he carried from his office and ran a thick finger down the names and corresponding cabin numbers. Forty-six men worked the light-maintenance crew, wearing a uniform that included those particular black trousers. Heavy maintenance was something different, the men who took care of the engine room and the ship's hydraulics. Light maintenance, Geert had explained, were basically handymen, responsible for everything from fixing clogged toilets and broken doors to replacing broken mirrors and cracked bathroom tiles.

With relish, Geert snapped on latex gloves and rapped a knuckle on the door of cabin 301. “Orlando Diego, Raul Jorge,” he called. “Open up.”

The man who opened the door was short and swarthy and was rubbing his eyes. His glossy black hair twisted as though he slept in a centrifuge.

“Orlando?” Geert asked.

“Raul.”

“Let me see your uniform.”

The question startled him.
“Que?
”

Pushing past him, Geert slapped the light switch on the wall. Raul stumbled back, his mouth dropping open. Then closed.

It was a tiny cabin with no window. A set of bunk beds and a closet that Geert whipped open. He shoved the metal hangers across a steel pole, a sound like screeching birds.

“Where is the uniform?” he demanded.

From the bunks, somebody groaned. Geert walked over, staring at the bundled shape on the top bed.

“Get up,” he ordered.

A flurry of Spanish exploded from the bundle. None of it sounded nice.

Geert glared at Raul.

“He sleep like that, mean.” Raul's tone sounded like a mixture of annoyance and satisfaction. Tired of dealing with an ornery roommate; pleased that somebody finally understood his plight. Raising his voice, he spoke Spanish to the bundle of blanket. I recognized two words.

El jefe
. Boss.

The sleeping man shot up, presumably Orlando. Squinting into the overhead light, he listened as Raul gave him another dose of information in Spanish.

“Yah, that is right.” Geert gave his savage smile. “I am on rampage. Now, where are your uniforms?”

Face red from embarrassment, Raul lifted a nylon duffel bag from the closet floor and pulled out four pieces. Two black shirts, two pairs of black pants. Identical to the pants in the purser's safe.

“I promise to send in the laundry,” Raul pleaded. “Today. I know, it stinks. But—”

“Where is his?” Geert indicated Orlando.

Raul reached down, picking something up from the closet floor. One black shirt, one black pair of pants.

“And the other?”

Raul hesitated, glancing at his roommate before barging into the bathroom. Pulling back the plastic shower curtain, he pointed to a black puddle blocking the drain. Geert pushed him aside and picked up the soaking material. Water dripped.

“Tell him,” Raul said to his roommate. “Tell him, or I will.”

Orlando tried to yawn. “I do my own laundry.”

Geert looked at Raul, challenging him to declare his loyalty. It did not take more than a moment.

“He was drunk,” Raul said, choosing job over roommate. “He puked all over hisself last night.”

“But he washed his clothes?”

“
I
wash his clothes,
I
put him to bed.” Raul was stabbing himself in the chest, his tone unleashing the frustration. “I live with
un cerdo
.”

Geert let go of the clothing, dropping it with a wet
thunk
on the shower floor. “If you talk about my visit, I will have you fired.”

We walked out, closed the door, and continued down the hall.

“That's it?” I asked.

He was checking the clipboard again. “Silly men.”

“So? Silly men commit crimes too.”

“They were hired two weeks ago. They can't even figure out how to get their laundry picked up. No way would they get into my office, or my safe.”

Moving methodically down the steel corridor, we went through twenty more cabins. None of the men were American, most were Hispanic, some Greek, and five uniforms were unaccounted for. Unfortunately, each belonged to a man whose waist was substantially larger than the black trousers. And with only two more cabins left on Geert's list, I was beginning to wonder whether the black trousers had been stolen from the supply room, and even worn by someone who didn't work light maintenance. A passenger, even.

Geert was rapping on the next to last cabin when I pulled out my cell phone and called Jack. When nobody answered the door, Geert unlocked it with his master key and stepped inside.

Or tried to.

“Ach,” he sneered, “talk of pigs.”

I stayed in the hallway, holding the phone, while Geert stretched his legs over plates of old food and dirty socks and scattered newspapers and magazines.

When Jack finally answered, his voice sounded jaunty. “How's it going?”

“Not great,” I admitted. “What about you?”

“Oh, just talking to Milo.” Buddies having coffee. No, whiskey.

“The
plan
was for you to ask him about the jeans.”

“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me.”

I felt like closing the phone on him but watched Geert shaking his bald head as he went through the closet. Since Jack kept me waiting, I went to the cabin's bathroom, running a quick inspection. Shaving cream and razors left on the side of the sink. Soap scum. Deodorants without caps, showing dark hair. Dirty mirror. A toilet needing flushing.

I was about to turn away when I saw an eye shadow set on the filmy counter. Bright blue and copper green. Mascara tube. Lipstick, lots of lipstick. I picked up a plastic box of powder foundation, Sandstone Glow, and was still holding the phone to my ear when I carried it over to Geert.

He offered his own gift: black leather and silver chains.

“
Real
pigs,” he said.

Jack's voice came back on the phone: “Raleigh, you there?”

Geert lifted another hanger. Leather whips. More chains. The bad feeling in my gut turned sour.

“Raleigh, you there?”

“I'll have to call you back.”

In the small space, it was difficult not to breathe the foul odors, which were like rot and the sick sweetness of decomposition. Six feet across, ten long, the room was the same size as the others but seemed smaller, crowded with the plates of fossilized food and the clothing strewn on the floor. The bunk beds were unmade, and even though I was wearing latex gloves, the last thing I wanted to do was touch the beds. But a search meant searching and I pulled back the torqued sheets, shivering with revulsion as I combed through the bedding. Something solid cocooned in one blanket. I pulled it out.

A camcorder. I held it up for Geert, dangling it from a gloved finger.

His mustache twitched like the whiskers on a rabbit. “Only one uniform is here.”

He held up a black shirt, then pointed to an area above the left chest pocket. The material was darker, with threads outlining a small rectangle.

“Name tag, gone.” Geert lifted his radio, clicking the button on the side. A series of clicks came in reply. Ninja language. Finally Geert read the names from the clipboard. “Ahmed Ramazan and Murat Serif. Immediately.”

He radioed the laundry room next, placing an all points bulletin on any of the black light-maintenance uniforms.

I went back into the bathroom, stoppered the sink, and dumped out the pink face powder, searching for any hidden jewelry. In the soiled shaving kits, I found a pair of cuticle scissors, more razors, boxes of condoms. Then I sorted through the trash can under the filthy counter. It was full of used tissues and despite all those years in the forensics lab, what I saw on those tissues triggered my gag reflex. I listened to Geert tell the laundry room to search every single duffel bag.

At the bottom of the trash can, the black threads looked like dried worms. And there was the rectangular patch.

I pulled it out.

“Ahmed,” it said. “Republic of Turkey.”