Cruise the Storm

by David Chilcott

  She had sent the payment herself, to the Western Union shop in Naples. She knew the payees names. She had made them up. She had made up the passwords, too. There were two parcels, ten grand in pounds sterling, each parcel.

  The ship wouldn't, couldn't sail until tomorrow night, at the earliest. She had heard that the dockyard had to attend to some repairs from the storm.

  She thought, from memory, that there was a train she could take, or even a ferry direct. There were three gold five pound pieces sewn into her bra. No problem. That was what Tony had said. Tony who had died only this morning, churned to pieces by the ship he had spent so many years on. She started crying again.

  Soon, her feet hit the sand on the seabed, and then she was walking out of the harbour, up on to the derelict quayside, like a mermaid, perhaps. No she corrected herself, a sea witch. The sun was warm, and her clothes were soon drying on her as she walked, now by observation, towards the buildings of the town. She came to a tarmacked road, and gradually traffic was flashing by. It must still be early morning, she thought. She put out her thumb, the universal hitch-hiking symbol.

  With a scream of braking, and the smell of diesel fumes, an old truck was pulling up just in front of her. She ran along to where it had stopped, leaped onto the step, pulling on the door. The window came down, and she could see a man in his forties, beard stubble on his face. "Do you speak English?"

  "Si. A leetle."

  "Can you give me a lift into town?"

  In answer, she heard him undo the locking mechanism with a clicking sound, and she could pull open the door and step in. The man removed crisp packets and debris from the passenger seat. She saw him looking at her breasts, and his tongue now between his lips. She knew, then how she would get a small amount of spending money to tide her over until she cashed in one of her golden euros.

  The man threw the gears in with a grinding noise, and the old truck slowly accelerated down the road. "How far to town?" she said.

  The man took his eyes off the road, "Twenty minutes," he said, addressing her breasts.

  She said: "You want a short time, hand job?" She mimed the action.

  He was silent for a minute, and said "How much?"

  She said confidently, "Twenty euros."

  "Is too much money. Ten"

  "Don't bother then, it's either twenty or you get nothing." She slumped back in her seat and looked out of the side window at the fields flashing past.

  "Okay I pay twenty There is passing place here." He meant layby, but didn't have the language for it.

  It took barely ten minutes, and they were back on the road again, Audrey with a twenty euro note in her pocket. The driver dropped her at an intersection, and pointed the way to the shops. It was a long walk, the shops improving in quality the nearer to the centre that she got. She saw a ladies dress wear shop, and went in for a look around There was a modish cardigan, loose, and long. It was in the sale, fifteen euros. She bought it, and put it on, looking at herself in the mirror. It gave her a bit more class, there was no doubt about that. And hid the bandage on her arm, which was the whole point. Now she was ready to sell a couple of gold coins. She had gone into the cubicle, and ripped them out of bra. They jingled in the pocket of her shorts.

  The jewellers she saw was not too smart. She saw second hand jewellery in the window, mixed with expensive looking bric-a-brac.

  The middle aged man in a dark suit behind the counter, took a look at the coins she had placed on the counter. He picked one up, put a loupe in his eye, and switched on a bright lamp on the counter. He gazed intently, and then put the coin to his mouth, and bit it. He did the same with the other one. He laid both the coins exactly aligned, took the loupe from his eye, looked at Audrey.

  "Yes, they are genuine. I will give you fifteen hundred euros for the both together."

  Audrey looked at him for a few seconds. "I think the actual price is eleven hundred each coin."

  "You have been doing your homework, young lady. However, I have to turn a profit, cover the overheads, put some bread into my mouth, never mind the family." He looked down at the coins. "Best price is nine hundred each. I cannot go any higher. I do not think you will get a better price in Palermo."

  Audrey put out her hand, and said: "Yes, I will take that price."

  Outside the shop, she looked round to find, firstly a leather goods shop. She needed a valise, then she needed toilet items, make up, a change of clothes, underwear. Some fresh bandage, too for her arm. The current dressing was looking decidedly tatty.

  She shopped until she had everything she needed, and looked like a sophisticated person.

  She had arrived at the waterfront during her shopping spree, and saw the ferry buildings. She went inside to enquire about a direct boat to Naples. There was one sailing every night, at 8pm. It arrived in Naples at 7am. One could either travel on reclining seats, or at a further cost, get a cabin for sole use.

  She made the booking, and went for lunch, sat on a table outside, in the shade, with a copy of yesterday's Daily Mail. The afternoon went by slowly.

  The ferry was, she estimated, about half full, when it eventually churned its way out of the harbour, and she stood out on the deck watching the receding lights of Palermo. She shivered and made her way below deck.

  The tiny restaurant was open, a queue of people waiting to help themselves to the self-service food. She had already dined, and went into the bar, instead. She asked for a gin and tonic, stood at the bar, drinking. A man came in to the bar, stood next to her, turned round and smiled. She smiled back.

  He said, "I haven't seen you on the ferry before." He was handsome, probably under forty. Audrey was attracted. The barman served him, and he headed for a table, saying "Do you want to sit with me?"

  She sat opposite, put her drink on the table. She said, "I'm Audrey."

  "I am Paolo, I make this journey regularly."

  "You have business in Palermo?"

  "My boss lives there."

  "What do you do for a living?"

  He looked at her for a minute, and she thought that the conversation had ended. She was being too nosey. And then, "I work for what you call the Mafia. I look after my boss' interests in Naples. High class brothel, high class ladies."

  "I have done that. High class sex services."

  "Do you want to do it in Naples? It is very good money. "

  It was her turn to weigh him up, rather than the other way round.

  I might do. I hope to have some money, which would last me maybe six months. If it is still there in Naples. If you give me your phone number, I might be in touch, but I cannot promise."

  "It is not important, we can still be friends."

  It was a calm night, and Audrey slept well. She had been awake most of the previous night, and had been in the water this morning swimming for her life, and after that walking through Palermo shopping.

  She ate breakfast on the boat, whilst they were entering the port, and was one of the first off the boat. She made her way to the Western Union agency, a tacky shop in a back street. She was too early, and the shop was not open. She sat on the doorstep, watching the kids playing in the street, until they went off to school. An old woman walked up to the shop, drawing a ring of keys from the bag over her shoulder. Audrey stood up and smiled.

  I'm your first customer," she said, smiling. The woman gave her a smile too, and Audrey could see a lot of missing teeth. She followed her in, watched whilst she put on the lights, switched off the alarm, and went behind a counter, which was barred to protect her against robbery. She slid open the glass door in the screen.

  "What can I do for you?" she said.

  "You have packages." She gave the names, and the passwords.

  The woman stared at her. "They have been collected, yesterday lunchtime, about 2pm, just before we closed for siesta; two boys, young men. They gave the correct passwords. Surely there has been no mistake."

  They had beaten her to it. She didn't think that they would get a p
lane, and that is what they must have done. She turned and went out of the shop.

  The next thing she must do would be to phone Paolo. She would certainly need to get a job.

  Chapter 45

  McBride saw Morton getting control, and issuing commands, so that soon he had the men spread across the whole of the public area of deck 5.

  "He can't have left this deck, we have men posted at all the staircases and lifts. He couldn't have got past them."

  "What about the private crew areas, lifts and staircases?"

  Morton was quick to take offense. "He would stand out against the crew, wouldn't last five minutes. He's in old man disguise. There are no old people in the crew."

  But you can change decks through the crew staircases. In any case, take off his wig, he's a young man again. Do you know how many crew there are on this ship? Four hundred people – how could anyone know that many? And there are new people nearly every voyage. Your best bet is to keep all these men on this level, just in case he is in one of the cabins. If he is, and comes out, we've got him. It's a waiting game. Meanwhile, I'll just explore the crew quarters. Show me where Bourne vanished."

  He walked with Morton, heading towards the bows of the ship, but long before they got that far, they reached the next lobby.

  "He vanished just about here." They were in a corridor leading off the lobby. "One of the patrols spotted him walking along here, and fired some shots at him with a machine gun, and shouted for him to stop. Bad move that, to alert him, but we've had no time to train the men." Morton pointed. "So Bourne raced off this way, uninjured apparently, there's no blood trail on the floor. By the time the patrol got to the corridor, he had vanished."

  Together they made their way down the corridor. After about five cabins, there was a door marked 'Crew only. No admittance'. McBride tried the handle and the door opened. Lights switched on automatically, revealing a landing with stair flights going both up and down.

  "Point is," said McBride. "Did he go up, or did he go down?"

  "Down, probably," said Morton, "We have more people on six and seven, less on eight. I'm waiting for the captain to make more crew available."

  Chapter 46

  When Bourne reached deck 3, going down, he turned left and chucked his wig in an industrial waste skip. He remembered that the kitchen porters Mike and Alan, that he had given big money to smuggle the arms aboard, had a cabin on this level. It was number three something, yes, seventy-eight, the year he was born.

  He arrived at the cabin and knocked on the door. "Come in," one of them shouted. He opened the door and stepped inside. Both the men were dressed in whites, one having a shave , and bobbing his head out of the bathroom door, the other tying his trainers laces, looking up at Bourne.

  "Hey there," Mike said, "I hear you're in big demand." He looked over to the bathroom, "Al, look who we have visiting." Al came into the cabin, still with shaving foam on his face, safety razor in his hand.

  "We hadn't expected to see you again. I hope you're not expecting any favours."

  "Just a small one. Could I stay in your cabin for a few hours, get some sleep. I could sleep on the floor."

  Al looked across at Mike who nodded at the unspoken question. "If you promise to be out of here in six hours' time. We're just going on shift, but we don't expect you to be here when we get back, okay? Otherwise…" he left the rest unsaid.

  "Set that alarm clock," pointing to the bedside table, "so that you go before we come back. We haven't seen you, just don't drop us in the shit."

  Within three minutes, they were both out of the cabin and Bourne was alone. He could hardly keep his eyes open long enough to climb on to one of the beds.

  Four hours later, driven by some inner clock, Bourne was instantly awake, the lights which he had not turned off, hurting his eyes. He washed and shaved. Did he look like Bourne again without the wig, but with the specs on? Unfortunately, the answer was yes. His crew cut fair hair gave the game away. If he could dye it brown or black, that would help, but surely there would be no hair dye here?

  He went back into the main cabin, searched the drawers and wardrobe. Here were a couple of clean white jackets on hangers. The trousers no doubt, were in one of the drawers. He tried one of the jackets, too tight. He cast it aside, tried the other; much better. With pair of the late Mr. Brown's dark trousers, which he already wore, he was transformed into a fair representation of a cabin steward.

  Five minutes search of the cabin, and he came across a shoe polish kit, two brushes and a tin of black polish in a faux leather case. He pulled out the tin, dipped the brush into the paste, brushed it across his hair, judging the effect in the mirror. Then he continued until he had coloured all his hair. It was not bad, the polish thin in places, so that the true colour of his hair came through, giving it a brownish effect rather than dense black. Not bad at all, Bourne rated the result. At least it matched his skin tone.

  He was ready to go. He picked up the pistol where he had left it on the bed, tucked it into the waistband of his trousers, pulled the white jacket so that it was hidden. Cautiously he opened the door. He walked along the corridor until he came to a flight of stairs. He came out on deck nine, and made for the grill room.

  A man came out of a cabin, turned and waved at someone inside, marching past him without noticing him. Bourne thought, I haven't fulfilled my quota for last night. He swung round, pulling the passkey from his pocket, pulling open the door. This action excited him, not knowing what he was about to find.

  From inside, as he was entering, a female voice said, "What have you forgotten?"

  "Nothing," said Bourne, his hands in his pockets, looking over to the king-size bed. The woman sat up quickly.

  "Who are you?" She was dishevelled, with languid eyes, looking as though she had just had sex. He guessed she was early forties, still beautiful.

  "Keith Bourne, hijacker. What's your name?"

  "That is nothing to do with you."

  "No, but I like to know the names of those I kill."

  Quick as a flash, she had reached for the phone, punched some numbers. Bourne had never seen anyone move so fast. He went over, put his hand on her wrist, and squeezed hard. The phone fell from her grasp. He picked it up, and listened. "Which service do you want?" said a pleasant voice.

  Bourne said: "Sorry, I misdialled" and put the handset back. "That was silly," he told the woman, who was in the process of flinging back the sheets, and getting hurriedly out of bed. Bourne admired her body. She was wearing absolutely nothing. He reached over the bed, as she attempted to get out of the other side, grabbed a leg, then as she struggled free, he was left floundering across the bed, feet off the floor. He struggled to his feet, heading for the door to cut off her exit. In the meantime, she had not made for the cabin door, but was now opening the doors to the balcony. She was screaming, and that was going to attract a lot of attention. He raced the length of the cabin, and dived at her, as she moved out to the balcony

  He caught her arm and she stumbled and fell across the patio, hitting the aluminum table with her head as she fell. A man from next door looked round the glazed partition, where it met the handrail. Bourne bent over the woman, and examined her. She was unconscious, bleeding slightly from the temple.

  "Sorry about the noise," he said, now lifting his head, and speaking to the enquiring neighbour, "I expect we've been keeping you awake with our fun and games. Everything is okay, she just missed her step and took a nasty fall." He picked her up as he said this, pretending she was conscious. "There, you're okay now."

  He knew the guy next door, was not going to go away any time soon, not with the opportunity to ogle a naked woman. He looked at her face, and saw returning consciousness.

  "If you just hold on to me, we'll soon get you in." Pulling her up pretending to be concerned, but using extreme force. He walked her back indoors, supporting her with his right arm round her, holding her close to stop her slipping out of his grasp, and with his hidden left hand clamping he
r mouth to stop her screaming or shouting for the neighbour. She was biting his hand, and he gritted his teeth to keep himself from shouting out involuntarily.

  Once he got her through the door, he slammed it behind them, threw her on the floor and drew the curtains shut. She didn't cry out, and Bourne knew she hadn't fully recovered. She lay on the carpet. He stood, looking down at her. What should he do? He could shoot her, but the gunshot would surely be heard by the nosy neighbour. In any case, he had to decide quickly, before the alarm was raised. Beat her head in, strangle her, smother her? There were lots of ways to kill her. Or should he just give up on the killing? One man couldn't do a hijack by himself, and the rest of his confederates were in the brig. The urge he had to kill the captain, what should he do about that? He knew why he wanted to do that. Because the captain had spoken to him as though he were a fool. Well he wouldn't let him get away with it. But when he looked down at the naked woman, he felt compassion, for the first time in his life. And, what was more, he thought, trying to justify such strange feelings, she was on his side. White, and most surely Christian. Struggling, he picked her up, took her over to the bed, put her down on it, and drew the covers over her.

  Her breathing told him that she had passed into normal sleep. Her concussion would pass, and she would awake normally, perhaps wondering if she had dreamt their meeting.

  He went out of the cabin. He still hadn't had breakfast. He carried on down the corridor towards the grill room.

  Bourne walked in feeling confident that he would not be recognized. At this early hour there were not a lot of diners. He walked towards a corner table.

  "Hey you. Where do you think you are going?"

  Bourne stopped abruptly, swung round, his hand going under his jacket to feel the pistol. A waiter was advancing, threading his way through the tables.

  "What's the matter?" said Bourne.

  "Staff aren't allowed to eat in passenger restaurants, well not in uniform they aren't. Is this your first trip?"