Tidal Rage

by David Evans

  The large whoosh and explosion and violent swell that followed told Sebastian his plan had worked. He took no satisfaction in this, his most major kill to date. The slaying was a necessity and gave him none of the pleasure he got from a close-up kill.

  Murat and the six entertainers died within five seconds of the fireball. The beauty of Christie and Pam that had been so admired the night before was now turned to blackened, charred, ghastly leather in a millisecond; they were dead, the screams frozen in their throats.

  The inevitable inquiry that followed the explosion and sinking of lifeboat four was as flawed as it was useless. The Russians retrieved the lifeboat and the charred remains of the six cadavers. Most of the interior was burnt out; the heat had set off all the remaining flares, so the ignition source was not apparent.

  It was several weeks before the inquiry findings were made public. The Russian marine investigators put it down to a leaking diesel pipe, probably a fault at the manufacturing stage due to the newness of the boat. The ignition source was probably the pilot or one of the entertainers having a cigarette, which was against all standing orders.

  Sebastian attended the on-board wake, and played I Believe.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fabienne Asper, the MIDAS technical expert, based in Geneva, had been an excellent addition to the company, Cutler congratulated himself. He was, however, bewildered at how Fabienne parked her large frame in the computer chair, ripples of muscle and fat spilling over through the apertures and gaps of the swivel chair.

  “The database is now complete, Herr Cutler,” she said in excellent English, with just a slight Swiss twang.

  “Fabienne, you are a genius,” Max replied honestly.

  “Over the last six months I have input all the data from the past ten years; every cruise that has been undertaken has been recorded. I must admit, I have used several students from the local technology college to assist in inputting the necessary information while I have put in the more delicate details. You also know I had Ghislaine with me for several months, and she helped with the differing languages and interpretation,” Fabienne explained.

  “How on earth did you get the missing persons and death at sea information? I can’t believe the cruise line operators offered these up to you freely,” Cutler said.

  “They are not NASA or the FBI, and their firewalls and security systems for electronic information are no match for my talents. These companies record the ship’s logs, crew names, guests’ names and addresses, and abnormal events such as deaths, illness, and missing persons, all of which I have accessed,” Fabienne replied.

  “That’s great work, Fabienne. When will you start adding the filters to start looking for trends of persons going missing or having died at sea?” Cutler asked impatiently.

  “We have started already with the easiest filter; those who have died naturally. And let me clarify this; those who had heart attacks and the like, where post-mortems have been carried out independently and verified as natural causes. To explain what I mean, if there has been no post-mortem, or if the causes of death have been undetermined, they have been excluded from the filter,” Fabienne explained.

  “That is very impressive, Fabienne. I’m a little concerned we’re only going back ten years, as we may miss some trends that go further back,” Cutler commented.

  “Without a doubt, that will be true; however, your initial briefing stated that you wanted a working system up in six months, which I have delivered. We could go back another ten years if you give me another two quarters. Give me a couple of years and I will include all those who died on the Titanic,” Fabienne said, with a trace of sarcasm.

  “Sorry if I have offended you. The work you have done is amazing in the time given. However, if you could keep those students of yours on, we will fund this, so if possible, let’s start putting the information in from the previous decade,” Cutler requested.

  “My little darlings don’t need paying; to learn from me is payment enough. I will do as you wish, Herr Cutler, but I assume you want me to start analysing the data we have stored already?” she continued.

  “Yes, that would be my wish,” Cutler responded.

  “Good, and what a job we have to do. In the past ten years there have been over 707 deaths and missing persons at sea,” Fabienne divulged to a stunned Cutler.

  “Seven hundred and seven?” Cutler asked tentatively.

  “What you must remember is that many guests on these ships are elderly; indeed, some are dying of cancers, heart disease, syphilis, boredom. What I’m trying to say is the numbers are bound to be high because a percentage of the passengers are the walking dead and would die anyway, whether at home or sipping a gin and tonic on a boat in the Pacific,” she lectured Cutler.

  “Okay, I understand this, Fabienne; tell me how many of these deaths you can rule out as natural,” Cutler replied, a little irked at Fabienne’s cold analysis.

  “Logically we will keep in all those lost at sea or missing, including your sister. Those number 72 souls, which leaves us with 635 souls. Then we take away all those who have died and had post-mortems, and we can deduct another 510. Thus, that leaves us with 125 deaths that may be suspicious. They may have died of natural causes but at this time, it is hard to say. But we say 72 missing persons is obviously suspicious,” Fabienne articulated.

  “Where to next, Fabienne?”

  “Over the next few weeks, I will add the filter for causes of death for the 125 and categorize them and look for any suspicious trends. The missing person filter will take longer, as there are so many fields, variables I have to take account of in the database; age, sex, cruise liner, age, personal history, medical records, plus a whole heap more.”

  “Very well, Fabienne. I’m not trying to repeat myself, but this is excellent work,” Cutler emphasized.

  “That’s not everything. I have some news about Cheryl’s husband’s case,” Fabienne surprised Cutler.

  “News? What news?” he asked eagerly.

  “I have extracted a statement given by an Emilio Antonelli, given to the captain the morning after Don, her husband, went missing. I have another from the captain’s log which identifies both boys who had been involved. After accessing the Bahamian police records, they said they knew nothing of the alleged attack. And I have a memo from the first mate to the police saying there were no suspicious circumstances concerning his disappearance.”

  “This gives us the name of the second boy,” Cutler stated.

  “And some more vital information. Six weeks after Don Ross vanished off the Large Pink Boat; it went into dry dock for a refurbishment. The work was subcontracted to a small shipyard in Portland. I have a memo from them that was stored on the cruise line files which states they found several teeth and a ring in a small drain, a drain which is precisely where the alleged assault on Don took place,” Fabienne qualified.

  Cutler took several seconds to think before turning back towards Fabienne.

  “Teeth and a ring; without the physical evidence, it doesn’t have any real significance,” Cutler specified.

  “Normally I would agree with you, but Northwest Marine Services, this shipyard in Portland, Oregon, has an ISO quality accreditation. In short, they have procedures which are audited by an international body,” she said.

  “Where is this going, Fabienne? Procedures, ISO... I don’t get it,” Cutler replied, a little bemused.

  “Quite naturally, I looked up their online procedures and found retention of property process. They keep any items found in the vessels, such as jewellery, for five years. When did Don Ross go missing?” she asked Cutler.

  “Four years ago, I think; no, four and a half years,” Cutler confirmed.

  “That's what I figured. I accessed their database of retained property. It goes without saying that the teeth are long gone, but the ring is still in their lost property section, and there is a description on the report. The ring is a school ring, one with a unique motif of the school. The school is P
alm Springs, the same school a certain Mick Hilton and Bernard Rothhelm go to. That’s the same two boys identified in the first mate’s report as those most likely to have been involved in a fracas on deck,” Fabienne said with a hint of smugness.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Cutler.

  “Indeed,” affirmed Fabienne.

  “We need that ring. It may still have DNA on it, and if we can get the ring as proof, I have friends in the FBI in Palm Springs,” he said, more to himself than to Fabienne.

  Cutler moved from the hub, as Fabienne called the office that was packed from floor to ceiling with electronic equipment, to the office next door. In stark comparison, this room had just a desk, a telephone, and views of Geneva Lake, with the world-renowned fountain in full view.

  Several minutes later, Cutler connected with Robert Stahmer.

  “Afternoon, Robert, it’s Max Cutler. And to cut to the chase, I need you to get on a plane from the UK and head over to Portland.”

  A short while after that, Cutler explained to the ex-Health and Safety Inspector that they had come across evidence of immense importance, but which had not been accessed in a legal manner. Cutler explained that although the initial computer search would not stand up in a court of law, Northwest Marine Services had a lost and found section on their website, and the ring would be listed. It was obvious to them both that the teeth would be disposed of by now, but the ring had not been claimed. There may be blood evidence on the ring.

  “Once you download a picture of the ring, go to Judge Norman Freeman in Oregon. Tell him you work for me, and that we have evidence of a fatal assault; the ring could be evidence. Use the statements from the Yacoubs, who witnessed the attack. We’ve had Basmati working under the tuition of an independent crime laboratory in Miami for the last six months. He should be up to speed now, so I’ll send him with you to secure the ring and ensure that the chain of evidence will stand up in a court of law,” Cutler declared.

  Immediately after the call to the MIDAS investigator he called Matt Rice, aka Basmati, and gave him his instructions. The next call was to his other investigator, Tucker Walters, the stocky ex-SAS New Zealander.

  “Tuck, its Cutler.”

  Several moments later, after pleasantries had been passed, Cutler continued.

  “Be careful what you say, as I know Cheryl is likely to be in the office with you. It concerns the disappearance of her husband. Note down these names: Mick Hilton and Bernard Rothhelm. We know about Rothhelm already, but Hilton is new to us. Dig up what you can and try to get in their faces a little. No rough stuff but let them know they are in our sights. You know the drill.”

  Tuck looked at Cheryl’s face as she sat opposite him. The large window in their office in Everglade City was sited along the banks of the Barron River, and Tuck could see a large pelican with a fish in its bill. The bird was sitting proudly on the wooden veranda.

  “On it, boss,” was all Tuck replied.

  Cutler returned to the hub, where Fabienne delicately removed a slice of Aargau carrot cake and quaffed it down in one movement, followed by another.

  “On the private matter, Fabienne, have you managed to look at Von-Baer and Werner’s history, to identify who his political partner is?” Cutler inquired

  “As you know, Herr Cutler, my German is good, but this guy has contacts all over Europe, and the translation takes time. If you let me have Ghislaine back I can get you an answer quicker,” Fabienne responded.

  “No, as much as possible I want MIDAS operatives kept out of this. I only asked you because you could save me hours of research,” Cutler stated honestly.

  “Well, I have several names, all delegates in the Bundestag: Guttmann, Heimlich, and Uebering. All seem to have had extensive business links with Werner,” Fabienne reported.

  “Thanks, Fabienne, keep digging if you would, please. Use a freelance interpreter if required; I’ll fund this. Make sure the person is not from mainland Europe. Werner’s tentacles stretch far and wide.”

  Cutler exited the hub once again to return to the desk to the phone. It took nearly twenty minutes to track down the handsome Spanish investigator, Philip Cortez, who was looking into the German connection.

  “Hola, Philip, como estas?” Cutler used his more than adequate Spanish.

  “Muy bien, gracias, my American friend. If you are phoning me, you must have something for me. It has been a while,” Philip Cortez stated.

  “Busy setting up MIDAS, Philip. You know how in-depth any new operation can be. However, you are always in my thoughts. I know you are self-reliant and wouldn’t want me phoning you every week to catch up with you. The e-mails you send over are descriptive and informative. You’re making real progress, the news about the link with the solicitor and political ally was excellent.” Cutler continued.

  “I think it may be fortuitous that you have phoned, as some information has come forward this morning which is disturbing,” Cortez said.

  “What information?” Cutler asked intuitively.

  “There has been a contract out for Dietmar Richter, as you well know, for the past year, posted by Werner. This morning, one of my little spies tells me the word on the street is that Richter is in the UK. By tonight, half a dozen hitmen who want to earn a small fortune will be on their way, hoping for a lucrative payday.”

  Cutler was startled at the information. “Thank you for the information. I’ll look into this.”

  “And what do you have for me?” Cortez asked.

  “Guttmann, Heimlich, and Uebering, all delegates in the Bundestag. Mean anything to you?” Cutler probed.

  “Yes, I know all three, all corrupt in their own way. But Uebering stands out. Her name has come up several times in my investigation and cross-referenced to Werner. She is certainly a person of interest and will move to the top of my list now that you have asked about her by name,” Cortez indicated.

  “Look into her first, and if you don’t get anywhere, investigate the other two. Thank you for the information, Philip, and I will speak to you soon. Ciao,” Cutler signed off.

  Cutler redialled.

  “Twice in one day, boss; what gives?” Tuck asked.

  “Is Hoagie there with you?” Cutler inquired.

  “No, he met a gay hairdresser in Hooters, of all places; they’ve gone for a love-in for the weekend to Saratoga Beach. I can use the emergency phone we’ve been issued.”

  “Use it, please, Tuck. Tell Hoagie to get his ass on a plane to Glasgow. Tell him I will be there in the Thistle Hotel in Sauchiehall Street. One more thing; text me his ETA,” Cutler ordered.

  “On it, boss,” Tuck said, knowing the rage that would consume Hoagie, as this had been his first lover in six weeks; such was the workload Tuck had set him.

  Cutler pressed ‘end’ and redialled.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been up to, but you’ve been made!” Cutler spat out.

  On the other end of the phone, the ex-German gang accountant Dietmar Richter began to shake.

  “They know where I am,” Richter said tellingly.

  “They know you’re in the UK, and as we speak, half a dozen sociopaths are on the way there to dismember your useless body!” Cutler was getting angrier by the moment.

  “I have to go out, shopping, a quiet drink. How could they know I’m here?” Dietmar said quietly.

  “Don’t you lie to me, you piece of shit! I need to know where you’ve been, so I don’t send you somewhere you’ve been spotted. Now tell me the truth, or I’m cutting you loose.”

  “Last… last month I went to Edinburgh and visited a pub called the Three Headed Man. I met a girl… I didn’t know she was a call girl,” Dietmar stuttered.

  “You thought she was after your body; you deluded idiot? What did you tell her?” Cutler demanded.

  “In the passion, I may have told her I was a German gangster in hiding.”

  “Couldn’t impress her with your tiny cock, so you played it big. You are a moron, and I should leave you to the co
nsequences!” Cutler stormed.

  “Please, Herr Cutler, I’m sorry. A man has needs. Please, Herr Cutler, you must come and get me. Werner’s men will tear me apart, and under pressure, I may have to tell them what we did with the money,” Dietmar declared, gaining a little of his composure back.

  “You can’t blackmail me, Dietmar. There is no trace of the money, and they will think you are lying to save your skin. The next time you try that ploy with me it will be me you are running from. Now I want you to go to the Thistle Hotel in Glasgow, between Hill Street and Sauchiehall. Register under the name Smith and order room service. Make sure you do not leave your room until I get there; do you understand?”

  “I understand, Herr Cutler. Thistle Hotel in Glasgow, between Hill Street and Sauchiehall. Mr Smith, and stay in my room,” Dietmar repeated.

  “Go, now!” Cutler said as he slammed the receiver down.

  Cutler walked the short distance to the hub and calmed himself down. On entering the hub, he saw Fabienne looking lovingly at a slice of tarte tatin, the slice bulging with apples entombed in caramel, and then it was gone.

  “Fabienne, concentrate on Uebering. Look at bank accounts and assets and see what you can come up with.”

  Fabienne just nodded, as she was still masticating the tarte tatin.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Operation Muscat was to be accomplished with some slight changes. Delegate Frau Uebering was sitting on top of the naked Von-Baer. She was still dressed in her houndstooth dress and leather boots; the only item missing was her cotton underwear that Von-Baer thought, but dared never to say, looked like granny knickers.

  She gripped the top of the red velvet headboard and rode him slowly and deliberately. Apart from the intermittent shudder of her body, she articulated the plan to her young lover. She ignored the limpness she felt inside her and forced herself down harder, grinding on Von-Baer’s manhood. He knew he could not pull out or he would face the ire of the delegate. Von-Baer heard only intermittent parts of her plan as he concentrated on fantasizing that it was Ursula, the blonde, slim, and beautiful Polish teller from his local bank that was swelling his aching and friction-burnt member back to life.