Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2)

by Lyle Nicholson

  Now, an unsuspecting man from a small village in Kurdistan must die, and by Kerim’s hand. In the darkened room, Kerim took his hand from underneath his blanket and put it close to his face. A small light shone through the portal. He could see his long slender fingers and small hands.

  He had wanted to be a teacher, perhaps of history, or geography. As a young boy, he buried his face in books while his big brother Anzor stormed around their village getting into trouble. His mother told Kerim he should be more like his brother, a man who would make something of himself.

  Kerim remembered his studies of Greek ships powered by rowers, their holds filled with olive oil and wine as they wallowed in the sun on the way to ports such as Acre in ancient Phoenicia, or Jaffa in the Kingdom of Israel and Alexandria in Egypt.

  He sighed, listened to the soft snores of his big brother, and wondered if, on that day in his village when his brother told him to follow him to jihad, if he should have said no and left for England. He had been accepted at a teachers’ college there. The headmaster of his village knew someone who got him in. In three years he could have been teaching in Saudi Arabia, or the United Arab Emirates.

  A beam of moonlight displayed his hand before his eyes. A hand that should have pointed out places on a map to students was going to take a man’s life. Kerim’s stomach churned and a dry retching feeling rose in his throat.

  The morning broke in bright sunshine. The day shift met in the mess hall and consumed breakfast with a large measure of tea and coffee, then moved onto their chores. Kerim and Anzor resumed their duties on the deck, chipping away at the rust, and then applying paint.

  Anzor explained the plan to Kerim in exact sequence. The pump room was the heart of the super tanker. The room connected all twelve of the individual compartments containing the oil. Emptying their vials in there and turning on the pumps would immediately inject the bugs into all the compartments. They would then proceed to the deck, wait for the ship to come apart and board the lifeboats with the other crewmembers.

  After Anzor had finished Kerim swallowed hard, “Is it still necessary to kill Goran?”

  Anzor stared at Kerim and gripped his shoulder, squeezing hard. “My little brother, our friend Adlan asked me if you had the courage for this mission, and I said yes. Our mother asked me if you had the strength to be a true fighter, and I said yes. Now, I will only tell you one last time, tonight you will summon your courage to strike this man down. That is the last word on this matter.” He knelt back on the deck and resumed his work.

  They did not speak again until just before 10 p. m. Anzor came to their cabin and handed Kerim a pipe wrench. “Conceal this in your coveralls. I am meeting Goran in the pump room in 20 minutes.” Anzor turned and left.

  Kerim stood in his cabin. His hand felt the cold steel of the pipe wrench. A cold clamminess grew in his hand, and he felt a tremor in his wrist. He dropped the pipe wrench then picked it up again, sitting on the bed to calm his nerves.

  He stared down at this watch. The time advanced. He willed it to stop. Each time the second hand swept around the face another minute brought him closer to his date with death. But it would be the death of an innocent man—by his own hand.

  At 10:45, there was no more waiting. He could stall no longer. He tried to stroll leisurely down the gangways, smiling at the few other crewmen he met. The pipe wrench felt like a massive weight dragging at the inside pocket in his coveralls. He concealed it with his hand and willed himself to move forward. His feet felt like lead, he walked stiffly, and was sure everyone noticed.

  He avoided the elevator and took the stairs down, hoping he wouldn’t meet anyone on his way down. He was in luck. The stairway was empty. His boots clanged as he walked on the metal stairway. They made a thunderous noise in his ears.

  He reached the pump room deck and walked slowly to it. The pump room was easily accessible; no security was present. The room was used for offloading or loading crude. Other than Goran, few crewmen ever came here.

  Kerim pushed the heavy door to the room open. Anzor and Goran were at the controls of the room, deep in conversation. Kerim removed the pipe wrench from his pocket and crept forward. He could see Goran’s shiny, hairless head. A silver earring hung from one ear.

  As he approached he could see the detail of Goran’s head. It was smooth. A head shaved perfectly with a cream applied that made it shine in the overhead lights. Kerim imagined his wrench striking that perfectly smooth head, the head gushing blood, and Goran falling to the floor, eyes wild with shock—his lifeblood flowing from him.

  He stopped for a moment. Goran reached back with his hand. He scratched his head. Did he anticipate the blow that was about to be struck? Kerim wondered. Kerim inched forward again, holding his breath.

  Two feet from Goran’s back, he stopped. He could feel the warmth of Goran before him. See the drops of perspiration forming on his neck making their way down into his t-shirt.

  He raised his wrench and struck.

  As Kerim came down with his wrench, Goran came up with his hand to scratch his head again. The wrench hit Goran’s hand and bounced out of Kerim’s hand. Goran turned to see Kerim standing there.

  “What the hell?” Goran yelled, his eyes wide with fear. He could see the intent of murder in Kerim’s anguished face.

  Anzor jumped Goran, and pulled him to the floor. Goran twirled as he fell, and seized Anzor by the throat. They rolled over the steel floor as Kerim moved out of their way. Kerim was frozen, transfixed, watching his brother grappling with the man.

  Anzor pulled his hands from Goran’s back and grabbed his throat. Two men, locked on each other’s throats, grunting, thrashing with their feet to gain a foothold and add more strength to their death grips.

  Anzor saw the wrench beside Goran’s head; he released one hand, grabbed the wrench and struck him. The crunch of metal on bone echoed in the room.

  Goran screamed in agony. He reached for the wrench. Anzor struck again. He struck Goran in the forehead. Goran went limp. A pool of blood formed at his head

  Anzor knelt beside Goran. His coveralls were covered in blood. He struck two more blows at Goran. There was no sound from Goran. Steel met bone. The sound echoed around the room.

  Kerim tapped Anzor on the shoulder. “I believe he is dead, my brother.”

  Anzor stood. He wiped sweat and Goran’s blood from his face. “Yes, I believe he is. You have the vials?” he asked, wheezing with exhaustion.

  Kerim produced the vials from his other pocket, and gave them to Anzor. He could not look Anzor in the eyes. He knew he was a failure once again. Anzor took the vials and emptied them into an opening in the pump room manifold.

  In the past three days, Goran had explained to Anzor just how the pump room connected each of the holding tanks on the ship. He dumped the vials in, and hit the switch that connected all the holding tanks. The large motor hummed.

  Anzor smiled at Kerim. “This motor is used to balance the oil in the tanks; today we use it to distribute our Bio Bugs to destroy this ship.”

  Kerim watched Anzor’s face. It showed only the delight of the mission. There was a large gash on Anzor’s arm. A wound from his struggle with Goran, it dripped blood onto the machinery. Kerim reached to tend to it, and Anzor brushed his hand away. There was an unmistakable look of disappointment he couldn’t miss.

  “How long until the bugs take effect?” Kerim asked.

  “I’m not sure. We will go back to our room, wash up, and wait. Hopefully there will be an abandon ship call a few hours from now, perhaps by morning . . .”

  Anzor stopped as he felt the ship lurch to one side. Usually the super tanker rolled to one side then the other. This was an unmistakable. The roll was deep—too deep. “I think they have already begun to attack the ship—we must hurry.”

  The officer of the watch on the navigation deck felt the lurch of the ship. The officer had been in collisions at sea before. But this didn’t feel like that. He ran to the control panel. The crewman was
standing wild eyed before the panel. The panel was a mass of red lights. Bulkheads were caving in—the sea was rushing in. The officer of the watch hit the abandon ship alarm, then grabbed the radiophone to issue a May Day call.

  Anzor and Kerim ran from the pump room. The elevator was already out of commission. They could hear men running up the stairs. They joined them. The claxon was sounding and the abandon ship message was being repeated in Russian, Arabic and English.

  They made it up four flights of stairs before Anzor stopped, wheezing. His bulk worked against him on the climb. “Look, Kerim . . . we can walk up . . . this ship will not break apart so fast.”

  He stopped as he heard water rushing from below. They looked down the stairs to see water mixed with oil coming fast.

  “We must run, my brother. We need to get our life vests, and get to a boat. You can rest there.” Kerim grabbed Anzor, and then pushed him from behind as they made the last four decks.

  The scene on the ship’s deck was surreal. The ship was listing badly; men were rushing to the lifeboats. They grabbed life vests from a cabinet and lurched towards the stern. There were lifeboats on either side.

  “Quickly Anzor,” Kerim yelled above the sound of the claxon and address system. “We must make it to our lifeboat station.”

  Anzor moved slow. He was wheezing from the run up the stairs, and not used to having his younger brother give him orders. “They will wait for us—they will bloody well wait for us.”

  As Anzor was not moving fast enough, Kerim decided they were closer to the port side lifeboat. He pushed Anzor in that direction. A bright moon shone over the ship that was now laboring heavily in the seas. The bow of the ship was submerged. They staggered down the slanting deck to the lifeboats. As they got to the port side, they saw that boat was already gone.

  They needed to get starboard. That lifeboat was their designation. The crew wouldn’t leave without them. At least they hoped. They staggered upward; the slant of the ship was rising and they grabbed the railings to move forward.

  They reached the lifeboat. It was still there. Several crewmembers milled around it; the Bosun was yelling instructions in Russian. As Kerim reached the lifeboat with the panting Anzor he could see the problem. The lifeboat was stuck with the pitch of the ship. He remembered seeing this on the Costa Concordia. He never thought he would be trapped by the same problem.

  Kerim looked at Anzor, “Anzor, it is no use; we must jump into the sea.”

  Anzor’s eyes went wide. “Into the sea—I cannot swim, I will drown.”

  “No, no my brother, you will be fine. We will go back to the port side. It is almost even with the sea. We will float away, light our life vest beacons, and be picked up.” Kerim waved his hand to the sea around them. “You see, there are many ships lights around us—we will be picked up in no time.”

  Anzor was like a large bull being led by the little Kerim. He resisted the entire return journey down the slanting deck. He was coming up with even more reasons why they should try to free the other lifeboat when the super tanker gave another sudden lurch.

  Kerim pushed Anzor before him, and in seconds they were swimming in the warm sea. Kerim grabbed the back of Anzor’s life vest, and swam with him in tow. Kerim had always been a good swimmer.

  The moonlight revealed the super tanker, its lights still shining, with large holes in its sides. Kerim called back to Anzor. “You see the bugs have done the work faster than we thought. Are you not happy with your work?”

  Anzor turned his head, but did not reply. He was keeping his gashed arm above the seawater. His large body was now covered in oil that glistened in the moonlight, his belly rose up above the water, and he was powerless in the water as Kerim pulled him along.

  A small wooden fishing boat came chugging into view. A group of Greek sailors called out to them. Kerim waved his hand. “You see Anzor, like I said. We are saved.”

  Bernadette had intended to tell Chris about her strange childhood, her lack of trust in the sanctity of marriage, and long term relationships—instead, she gave Chris a hug first, and he hugged back. She kissed him. He kissed her back.

  Inside of three minutes they were headed for her bedroom, yanking at each other’s clothes and leaving a trail of pants, shirts and underwear until they reached the bedroom and commenced frantic lovemaking.

  Much later they lay entwined on the bed. Chris traced his hand down her shoulder and along her back. She rolled over and looked at her watch, it was nine o’clock. “I’ve got to get going,” she said as she got out of bed to get her clothes.

  “What time’s your flight?”

  “7 am, but I have to check in at 5:30am for the flight to Houston that connects to Mexico. I was supposed to be staying at a hotel near the airport tonight.”

  “Leave early in the morning,” Chris said as he rolled out of bed, and stood naked in front of Bernadette.

  “Oh my god, you’re hard as rock.”

  “Yes as a member of the Canada’s national police force, I stand on guard for thee!” Chris laughed as he moved closer.

  In minutes they were back in bed together. Bernadette realized Chris did have a good idea. She had eight and half-hours before she checked into her flight.

  23

  Captain Lars Johannes was called to the bridge of the cruise ship Empress of Europe at 2325 hours. He was just about to fall asleep in his quarters after a long day of navigating the Greek Isles. Their previous port was Santorini, and berthing the massive cruise ship into the Caldera with its treacherous rock outcrops was never an easy task. And all the while, he had to keep smiling as the Captain of one of the world’s largest cruise ships.

  The ship was 1,181 feet long, 208 feet wide and over 225,000 tons, with a full capacity of over 6,300 passengers. This warm August night, while sailing at 22 knots to make their next port in Dubrovnik, the ship was at capacity.

  Arriving at the massive bridge, set in darkness with blue lights for reading instruments, the Captain found the officer of the bridge. “What’s the situation?”

  The officer pointed to the sweeping radar in front of them. “We’ve received a report from the Greek Coast Guard that an oil supertanker is in distress and sinking 25 nautical miles off our starboard.” The officer was young, in his late twenties, and a Norwegian from close to the Captains hometown.

  “Very well, make our speed to 25 knots, and inform the crew on lifeboat decks three to make ready for rescue when we reach the destination. Call our ship’s doctor, and have him muster all medical personnel to be on deck three for any casualties.”

  “Aye, aye Sir.” The officer picked up his phone and began calling orders in a quiet and calm voice.

  Captain Johannes watched his young officer in action, and felt a pride in watching what his mentoring had done with the young man in three short years. He would be a fine captain one day. He looked over the calm seas, the bright moon that illuminated the sky and wondered what could have befallen this supertanker. He then realized something he needed to do. He had to call the head office in Miami.

  Any time his cruise ship veered off course, company policy stated that the department of operations must be informed. As this ship was the largest and most prestigious of the fleet, that meant that the Vice President of Operations, Niels Bleeker, must be contacted. Bleeker was Dutch, recruited from a large Dutch cruise company three months earlier, and Captain Johannes hated speaking with him.

  There was something in Bleeker’s voice that grated on Johannes. There was the implied tone that Bleeker’s previous Dutch cruise company did everything so much better than the company that Johannes sailed for. Johannes privately mused that Bleeker must have been scorned by a good-looking Norwegian woman to hate the Norwegians so much. It was something he would never voice.

  Johannes made the call to Miami Operations. But he did so after drinking a cup of tea on the bridge, and getting a full briefing about weather conditions, all other vessels in the area, and what other ships were coming to the aide of
the stricken tanker. It took a full 45 minutes for him to do this. By the time he picked up the satellite phone to make the call, they could see the lights of the supertanker on the moonlit horizon.

  When Johannes reached Bleeker he could tell he was not in a happy mood. It was 6 a.m. Miami time, and a Saturday morning. He gave Bleeker a quick summary of the situation and the readiness of his ship’s crew to aid the stricken vessel.

  Bleeker inhaled sharply before his reply. “Why is our star cruise ship, with over 6,000 paying passengers aboard, going to the aid of an oil tanker, which will be wallowing in a sea of thick crude oil? Not only will it take a day in port to get the oil stains off the Empress of Europe’s beautiful white hull, the stench of oil will make our passengers sick.”

  He inhaled again as he launched into his tirade, “If you venture into that morass of thick stench—which I forbid you to do—I would have over 1,000 emails from passengers in three hours complaining of nausea and missed port tours.”

  Johannes cut in, “But the law of the sea states . . .”

  “Damn it, Johannes, I know the law of the sea. It states that all those that are able should give aid. You are going to call the Greek Coast Guard, tell them you’ve developed engine trouble, and steam away at 10 knots, then in one hour from now, you’ll fix your engine trouble and make your next port of call, and 6,000 plus paying passengers will happily be taking tours that they’ve paid us good money for.”

  “But we are the closest to give them aid,” Johannes cut in. He was a seventh generation Norwegian seafarer. Any mariner in trouble was his concern. This had been taught to him by his grandfather in Stavanger, and handed down from one mariner to another.”

  “How close are other ships?”

  Johannes scanned his radar screen. “There are other ships at 10 and 15 nautical miles. We are only 3 nautical miles away, we could easily pick them up and hand them over . . .”

  “Damn your thick Norwegian skin, Johannes, I’ve told you what you need to do. You cut your engines, turn your ship due north toward your next port, and tell the Greek Coast Guard you have engine trouble. You carry out this order, or you will be relieved of duties at your next port.” Bleeker slammed the phone down.