Beyond the Poseidon Adventure

by Paul Gallico

  “Tell me something, Rogo. You’re a cop. You’ve seen a lot. Tell me about Hely. How could she be so bad and so good at the same time? I don’t understand.”

  Rogo folded his arms on his heavy chest and thought for a moment before replying. “Y’know my wife died on that tub? Linda. She was . . . hell, she was my whole goddamn life. I worshiped the kid. Know how I met her? She was a hooker. A hooker, Jason. But she was one helluva great broad.”

  He was almost talking to himself now. “Me? Yeah, I’m a cop. I could just as easy’ve been a hood. Where I grew up you did your talking with yer fists. I got lucky. I got pulled into a boxing club. From there I got to be a cop. Which side of the law you land on is chance. You got a nice daddy and a swell house and proper schooling”—he brushed away Jason’s unspoken protest with one hand—“so you don’t know what it’s like on the tough side of town. Survival, that’s what it’s all about.

  “Hely. I didn’t know the kid. But I know how it happens. Mebbe she didn’t have the breaks you had. Mebbe she had to grab all her life, like Linda did. I enforce the law, right? But I know that the law looks fine for guys like you in the big houses. It don’t look so sacred when your belly’s empty.

  “I gotta tell you this, pal. It takes guts. It takes guts to go against the rest of the world. It takes guts to pull a gun or rob a bank. Don’t forget, it was her guts saved us all in the end.”

  He stopped. He was thinking about Hely’s unexpected offer to him when he had tried to search her purse the first time. She had offered herself, and he knew it. “Take it from me, Jason, that broad would have done anything for you. Most people don’t get that in a lifetime. You had it for a coupla hours. Call yourself lucky.”

  They were quiet for a long time then, each one thinking about the woman he had lost. Finally, Jason turned to the policeman and said, “Thanks, Mike. I wanted to believe in her. You just showed me how.”

  A PRESENTABLE STORY

  16

  The young man who said he represented the American government, without actually specifying any particular department, had a college-smoothed accent, a permanent suntan, and a worried look on his face. His instructions had been explicit and urgent, and so far everything had gone to plan. The second the Magt had docked in Athens he was on board, together with officials from the Dutch embassy and the Greek government.

  There had been a lot of talk about security. National security, NATO security. There had been a lot of talk about international incidents and leakages. Martin and the nurse had eagerly given him their assurances and, prodded by the Dutch official, Klaas and his daughter had done the same. He was perfectly satisfied with their response, and with the enthusiasm with which they agreed on a presentable story for the world.

  It was the New York cop who worried him. It had been plain from the start that Rogo disliked him, and he made little effort to conceal the fact. He grumbled about “CIA monkeys” and he wore an air of surly truculence that was not at all promising. And now here he was at the inevitable Press Conference, and the young man was not at all sure that Rogo would carry it off. He was not at all sure that Rogo considered it worth trying to carry it off. And it was Rogo, sitting in the center of the group behind a gleaming mahogany table, who would face most of the questions.

  Under the white glare of the television lamps, the story unfolded slowly before the prompting of seventy or more journalists. Rogo had been on an assignment to deliver files of documents from the American government to Athens. No, they were not vital documents. Just sufficiently important to require routine security. No, he had no idea of the contents. The papers were stashed in a small hold off the engine room. He had left the ship when it seemed certain the Poseidon was sinking. He returned when he learned it could in fact float for hours. Oh yes, and he regretted pulling a gun on the French helicopter pilot. It was the only way at the time. Yes, he had retrieved the documents and they had been safely delivered.

  Then it was Klaas’s turn. He had gone to the distressed liner and boarded her to see if there were any survivors who required help. The other ship, he explained, was the Komarevo, a salvage vessel under the command of a Captain Bela. He had insisted on staying on board the Poseidon in order to claim salvage rights. Yes, he agreed, it was a tragic miscalculation. The other boat on the scene, he said, was a pleasure yacht that was merely indulging in some ghoulish sight-seeing.

  One by one the questions were tidily answered. The young man’s frown was clearing. It was all going beautifully. Rogo explained about Manny Rosen. The poor man had been flung into the water when the ship lurched, and had drowned. Martin had also injured his foot under falling machinery. Martin delightedly put his cleanly bandaged foot on the table for the photographers and said it was nothing really. Then he ran into trouble: Why had he returned with Lieutenant Rogo? He stumbled. “Well, I dunno . . . I guess . . . Well, we sat at the same table.” There was an incredulous silence.

  “You went back because you shared the same table?” The young man’s fingers locked tightly on his knee.

  Rogo took up the question. He leaned forward and fixed the reporter with his best, open-eyed, move-along stare, and said, “I asked Rosen and Martin to help me. It was a tough spot. I couldn’t call a patrol car. He came ’cause he’s got guts and he’s too modest to say so. Okay?” It was sufficient. Rogo’s authority and the offer of a romantic angle was quite enough to satisfy them.

  The young man relaxed and revised his opinion about New York policemen.

  They romped through the rest of the questions. “Lieutenant, what’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get back home?”

  “Check up on what you guys write,” came the answer, and a murmur of amusement greeted the typical tough talk.

  “What if they call you a hero?”

  Rogo shook his head. “The only hero,” he said, “is the guy who’s been standing in for me back home.”

  The lights dimmed, and soon they were all shuffling out, sticking pencils and notebooks in pockets. “Lieutenant, I want to thank you,” the young man said. “You should be on Broadway.”

  “I am,” said Rogo, with one of his more ferocious scowls. “Only I don’t get my name in lights. And can I give you a tip, fella? A word of advice from an old dumb cop? Don’t wear those goddamn shades—a kid of ten would know what you’re about.”

  Under the dark glasses, the cheeks pinkened.

  Then one of the reporters called out a last-minute question. “Hey, lieutenant, one more thing please. On the television footage there was one shot where it looked like there was a guy in blue jeans with you. Was that right? And if so who was he?”

  They were all looking at Rogo. He appeared to be fascinated by the question. “A guy in blue jeans. Hell, I wouldn’t know about that. Maybe it was Batman.” The roar of laughter ended the questioning and they all trooped out.

  In the street, one reporter caught another’s arm. “Hey, just a minute,” he said. “What was the name of that little guy with the smashed foot?”

  “Martin,” came the reply. “I think it was John Martin.”

  Inside, Rogo drummed thick fingers on the table and grinned at his own joke. Hell, Jason would have loved that. Perhaps he’d see it in a newspaper somewhere.

  He got up and strolled over to the window. Funny guy, he thought. Kinda grew on you. He wondered where he was now. He remembered the final scene when they had parted. They had all gone up on deck to say good-bye, and as they shivered in the night’s cold it seemed strange to be separating after the concentrated intimacy of their few hours on the Poseidon. Somehow it had become a solemn moment. The handshakes, the “Take care” and “Watch yourself, pal.” Coby’s tears when he kissed her cheek. Then that private moment when his eyes met Rogo’s and he said, “I never thought I’d take advice from a dumb cop, but thanks all the same, Rogo.” He had just mumbled a few embarrassed words himself. His moment had come when Jason was about to pull at the oars. Rogo relished the memory of that again.

&nbs
p; “Hey, Jason,” he had called. “Check your sandwich can.”

  He saw Jason’s questioning glance as he reached for the can Coby had packed with food. The lid came off and the bright moonlight shivered on that shining ingot.

  Jason whistled. “I thought your government wanted its gold back?”

  “What gold? It all sank. Remember? Buy yourself a new boat, huh?”

  Then his shape had merged with the shifting shadows of the sea and they could only hear his reply, “Okay. And I’ll call it the Dumb Cop.”

  Their laughter met and merged over the water. Then it was silent again. That, thought Rogo, was one helluva way to start a New Year.

  There is a point where the politics of business and the business of politics blur and fuse. There is a time, too, when boardroom faces begin to look the same. Their words, in Greek or English, ring with the clear innocence of simple trade, but, like ocean liners, they may carry a deadly, unseen cargo.

  So it could have been Haven or Stasiris who presented a shiningly benign face to his now untousled, unruffled audience.

  “Gentlemen,” said Stasiris, or perhaps Haven, “I have the pleasure to report that the operation has been brought to an entirely satisfactory conclusion.”

  Relief relaxed their shoulders, took the tension out of their necks, and unlocked tightly clasped fingers. The sigh was almost orgasmic.

  “The facts,” continued the Greek or American, “are these. The seismographic station on Malta reports that an underwater volcano which must have caused the original tidal wave erupted this morning and blew the Poseidon to pieces. There is now a new island in the sea where the liner lay.”

  He paused to savor the pleasure of that moment. Then Stasiris added, “You will share with me a sense of sadness that the gallant Captain Bela, who was in charge of the operation on our behalf, died in that explosion. So, too, regrettably, did all his crew.”

  He paused again. “However, we must balance that against our pleasure that Michael Rogo, the policeman, and other survivors have been saved . . .” He held up a firm hand to silence the first murmurs of doubts. “And, my friends, he was met in Athens by a representative of the American government who impressed upon him the need for discretion in this matter.

  “He cooperated, of course, as any good policeman would. The world’s press has been given an acceptable account of the incident which will cause embarrassment to no one. Turkey will not have any reason to be offended. Our Greek Cypriot friends might have to wait a little longer. If the American government wishes to repeat the attempt to help an ally with some form of loan, they will no doubt exercise greater caution in the future.”

  A delighted hum erupted from the smiling faces around the table greeting his last words.

  “And, most important of all, the cargo was completely destroyed. Not one bar . . . I apologize, gentlemen. Not one item of the shipment survived the blast.”

  It was worth saying again. “Not one.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Paul Gallico was the author of twenty-seven previous novels, twelve books of nonfiction, and four books for children. Among his best-known works are his wonderful fables, The Snow Goose and Miracle in the Wilderness, the Mrs. ’Arris books, The Zoo Gang, and The Poseidon Adventure. Born July 26, 1897 – Died July 15, 1976

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  1: BACK TO THE POSEIDON

  2: THE FRIGHTENED MEN

  3: “IT’S A DISAPPOINTING WORLD”

  4: MINDING THE STORE

  5: UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE

  6: COMPANY

  7: OPEN THE CAGE

  8: “YOU’RE A KILLER, MANNY”

  9: THE TRAPS

  10: THE TUNNEL OF DEATH

  11: THE PURSE

  12: “LIKE YOUR PRESENT, ROGO?”

  13: THE DIVE

  14: AMONG THE SHADOWS

  15: “WHO WANTS A DEAD COP?”

  16: A PRESENTABLE STORY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR