THE MIDDLE SIN

THE MIDDLE SIN Page 23

by Merline Lovelace

  "So­unds li­ke fun."

  "It is, if you don't mind oozing gre­ase from every po­re."

  Cleo wan­ted a num­ber. "So that ma­kes what? Eig­h­te­en, twenty abo­ard the ship?"

  "Twen­ty-th­ree," Jack con­fir­med.

  "Did you run bac­k­g­ro­und checks?" Johan­na Mar­s­ton as­ked.

  Cleo co­uld ha­ve told her Do­no­van al­ways ran de­ta­iled bac­k­g­ro­und checks when pre­pa­ring for an op. He pro­bably knew the cap­ta­in's shirt si­ze, as­t­ro­lo­gi­cal sign and pre­fer­red se­xu­al po­si­ti­on. Jack con­fir­med her gu­ess with a suc­cinct re­port.

  "All but three of the crew are cle­an. One pop­ped in NCIC for a drug bust se­ven ye­ars ago, anot­her for a fa­ilu­re to pay co­urt-or­de­red child sup­port. The third got drunk and bus­ted up a wa­ter­f­ront di­ve in San Di­ego a co­up­le ye­ars back. To­ok fo­ur cops to sub­due him."

  "J­ust yo­ur typi­cal sa­ilors," Marc ob­ser­ved dryly.

  Fully air­bor­ne now, the Se­ahawk ban­ked in­to a sharp turn. Cleo's sto­mach ban­ked with it. Grab­bing a si­de strap, she hung on un­til the deck le­ve­led be­ne­ath her bor­ro­wed high-tops.

  "No links to any smug­gling rings or sto­len car­go­es li­ke this guy Do­mi­no li­kes to bro­ker?" she as­ked Jack.

  "No­ne that I co­uld find."

  "If pi­ra­tes are se­ri­o­usly con­si­de­ring hi­j­ac­king the Pit­sen­bar­ger's car­go, they'd ha­ve to ha­ve so­me­one on the in­si­de," she ar­gu­ed. "May­be se­ve­ral so­me­ones."

  "They co­uld be plan­ning to co­me abo­ard in Cyprus," Jack co­un­te­red, "when the Pits ta­kes on fresh wa­ter and fu­el."

  "Ta­king over the ship might be mo­re dif­fi­cult than it wo­uld se­em at first blush," Johan­na com­me­ri­ted. "The In­ter­na­ti­onal Ship and Port Fa­ci­lity Co­de that ca­me in­to for­ce in July of last ye­ar re­qu­ires every ship to de­ve­lop a se­cu­rity plan to gu­ard aga­inst ter­ro­rists and pi­ra­tes. Has the Pit­sen­bar­ger im­p­le­men­ted such a plan?"

  "It has," Jack con­fir­med, "and it's be­en tes­ted twi­ce. On­ce by the port of Char­les­ton and on­ce by the Navy Se­alift Com­mand. The ship pas­sed both tests."

  Con­si­de­rably re­li­eved by that in­for­ma­ti­on, Cleo slum­ped back aga­inst the web­bed se­at­back. The two puff pas­t­ri­es she'd scar­fed down at Johan­na Mar­s­ton's se­asi­de vil­la we­re al­re­ady we­aring off. Un­for­tu­na­tely, the Se­ahawk didn't co­me equ­ip­ped with a gal­ley. Not even box lun­c­hes or Me­als Re­ady to Eat. Tho­se MREs wo­uld tas­te pretty go­od right now.

  May­be when they to­uc­hed down on the Pits one of its co­oks co­uld ser­ve up a lit­tle snack. Bu­oyed by that ho­pe, Cleo spent the rest of the ho­ur-and-a-half flight al­ter­na­tely hud­dled with the ot­hers and vi­si­ting with the crew up in the flight deck.

  Cleo's first vi­ew of U.S. Mo­tor Ves­sel A1C Wil­li­am H. Pit­sen­bar­ger was thro­ugh the coc­k­pit win­d­s­hi­eld. It ca­me as a se­ve­re shock.

  After be­ing wo­wed by the si­ze of the army ship at Sunny Po­int, Cleo ex­pec­ted to see a ves­sel the si­ze of three fo­ot­ball fi­elds chug­ging ac­ross the Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an. This speck on the ho­ri­zon lo­oked po­si­ti­vely mic­ros­co­pic.

  Gran­ted, she was vi­ewing it from a per­s­pec­ti­ve of two hun­d­red fe­et abo­ve sea le­vel and three na­uti­cal mi­les out. Still, the sight wasn't re­as­su­ring. Just a tad ner­vo­us, she ke­yed her mi­ke.

  "I don't want to qu­es­ti­on yo­ur na­vi­ga­ti­onal skills, guys, but are you su­re that's the Pits?"

  "That's her," the co-pi­lot con­fir­med.

  "And we're go­ing to put down whe­re?"

  "On the he­lo pad ne­ar the bow, well for­ward of the dec­k­ho­use."

  Cleo spot­ted the po­in­ty-en­ded bow. She spot­ted the tall dec­k­ho­use at the stern of the ship. She didn't spot an­y­t­hing re­mo­tely re­sem­b­ling a he­lo pad.

  As the Se­ahawk drew clo­ser, tho­ugh, the ship as­su­med mo­re ma­j­es­tic pro­por­ti­ons and the mi­nis­cu­le pad at­tac­hed to the bow swam in­to vi­ew. So did the air-con­di­ti­oned, de­hu­mi­di­fi­ed pods Ser­ge­ant Ste­vens had told her abo­ut. The hu­ge, squ­are pods crow­ded every inch of the up­per deck and ho­used the ship­ping con­ta­iners that wo­uldn't fit be­low. Every one was pac­ked with bombs or mis­si­les or ot­her high-ex­p­lo­si­ve de­vi­ces.

  Gul­ping, Cleo re­tur­ned to her se­at. She strap­ped in, sin­ce­rely ho­ping the pi­lot put his craft down gently and didn't scra­pe or bump any me­tal aga­inst me­tal, the­reby ge­ne­ra­ting a few way­ward sparks.

  To her in­ten­se re­li­ef, the Se­ahawk ho­ve­red over the ship li­ke a cu­ri­o­us mos­qu­ito and in­c­hed dow­n­ward. The skids hit the pad with only a small thud…t­hen im­me­di­ately lif­ted aga­in as the Pits plun­ged in­to a tro­ugh and the deck drop­ped away.

  The Se­ahawk's pi­lot kept his craft in a ho­ver un­til the deck ro­se. The skids hit aga­in. No gen­t­le thump this ti­me, but a so­lid whack. Cleo's sto­mach flat­te­ned and her fa­ce must ha­ve tur­ned a lit­tle gre­en be­ca­use the yo­ung flight en­gi­ne­er was grin­ning when he jum­ped out the si­de hatch to at­tach the tie-downs.

  "Watch yo­ur step," he war­ned as he hel­ped his pas­sen­gers exit the craft. Gras­ping his glo­ved hand, Cleo step­ped out.

  "Holy crap!"

  Funny what a dif­fe­ren­ce per­s­pec­ti­ve co­uld ma­ke. Lo­oking up from the dock at Sunny Po­int at so­me ten or twel­ve sto­ri­es of black hull was one thing. Lo­oking down from a tiny lan­ding pad per­c­hed on the bow of a ship plo­wing thro­ugh swells so­me ten or twel­ve sto­ri­es be­low was so­met­hing el­se aga­in.

  Han­ging on to the li­fe­li­ne the flight en­gi­ne­er pas­sed her, Cleo in­c­hed her way ac­ross the he­lo pad and down the steps to the deck. It rol­led and pit­c­hed be­ne­ath her fe­et as an of­fi­cer in kha­kis with the col­lar in­sig­nia of the U.S. Mer­c­hant Ma­ri­ne ca­me for­ward to gre­et them.

  "I'm First Of­fi­cer Wes­ter­beck."

  His ke­en glan­ce to­ok in Marc's ex­pen­si­ve slacks and bla­zer, lin­ge­red for a mo­ment on Johan­na's jum­p­su­it, and got stuck on Cleo's span­dex and high-tops un­til Jack pro­du­ced his cre­den­ti­als.

  Drag­ging his ga­ze away from the jun­g­le print, Wes­ter­beck ba­rely glan­ced at Jack's ID.

  "We re­ce­ived a com­mu­ni­que you we­re co­ming, Ma­j­or Do­no­van. Wel­co­me abo­ard."

  "Thanks."

  "The cap­ta­in is wa­iting for you on the brid­ge. Fol­low me, ple­ase."

  The smi­le was po­li­te, the gre­eting co­ur­te­o­us. Cleo had tro­ub­le pla­cing the ac­cent, tho­ugh. Jack's bac­k­g­ro­und bri­ef had in­di­ca­ted all the ship's of­fi­cers we­re U.S. ci­ti­zens. They had to be to we­ar the uni­form and in­sig­nia of the U.S. Mer­c­hant Ma­ri­ne. First Of­fi­cer Wes­ter­beck's fa­int, al­most in­dis­cer­nib­le ten­dency to elon­ga­te his vo­wels so­un­ded Euro­pe­an to Cleo, tho­ugh. He co­uld be a na­tu­ra­li­zed ci­ti­zen, she re­aso­ned.

  Then aga­in…

  Ca­su­al­ly, she let her hand sli­de down the sho­ul­der strap of her pur­se to rest lightly on the half-open zip­per. Just as ca­su­al­ly, she bro­ught it back up aga­in. The idea of pum­ping off a shot sur­ro­un­ded by all the­se pods cram­med with ex­p­lo­si­ves pop­ped out tiny be­ads of swe­at on her tem­p­les.

  The pods we­re stac­ked along the en­ti­re length of the deck-hu­ge, squ­are blocks ar­ran­ged in do­ub­le rows, three high and eight or ten de­ep. Ho­ses sna­ked from one end of the pods, suc­king damp air out and pum­ping co­ol air in.

  Cleo tri­ed to do the math as they ma­de the­ir way along the port si­de of the sh
ip. Or may­be it was star­bo­ard. She ne­ver had be­en ab­le to ke­ep them stra­ight. Ser­ge­ant Ste­vens had sa­id the Pits co­uld ha­ul mo­re than ni­ne hun­d­red con­ta­iners. Se­ven hun­d­red or so be­low deck, the rest abo­ve deck in the­se pods. That me­ant each pod shel­te­red aro­und thirty con­ta­iners. Mo­re or less.

  Aban­do­ning the cal­cu­la­ti­ons, she fo­cu­sed in­s­te­ad on the three mas­si­ve yel­low cra­nes that ho­ve­red over the pods li­ke long-leg­ged storks. One was set amid­s­hips, the ot­hers at eit­her end of the car­go deck. Tho­se cra­nes ga­ve the Pits the abi­lity to of­f­lo­ad its own car­go-very use­ful for a mu­ni­ti­ons ship that might ha­ve to pull in­to ports with mi­ni­mal to no­ne­xis­tent dock fa­ci­li­ti­es.

  She al­so no­ted the ex­ten­si­ve ar­ray of ra­dar and ra­dio to­wers atop the high-ri­se dec­k­ho­use at the stern of the ship. Jud­ging by that ar­ray, the Pits co­uld no do­ubt pick up ever­y­t­hing from pre­ci­se glo­bal-po­si­ti­oning na­vi­ga­ti­onal da­ta to just-re­le­ased mo­vi­es be­amed in via sa­tel­li­te for its crew,

  "This Way, ple­ase."

  Hol­ding open a hatch, Wes­ter­beck us­he­red them in­to the dec­k­ho­use. It was nar­row, ba­rely one ro­om wi­de so as not to sac­ri­fi­ce car­go spa­ce, and stra­ight up and down.

  Cleo ca­ught the scent of fri­ed oni­ons drif­ting from be­low and gu­es­sed the gal­ley must oc­cupy a lo­wer deck. Her sto­mach to­ok due no­te of the tan­ta­li­zing aro­ma as she chug­ged up flight af­ter flight of sta­irs, pas­sing the crew qu­ar­ters, the of­fi­cers' deck, the cap­ta­in's qu­ar­ters, the ra­dio ro­om and-fi­nal­ly!-the brid­ge.

  Huf­fing slightly, Cleo step­ped in­to the gle­aming whi­te ope­ra­ti­ons cen­ter. Glass pa­nes cir­c­led the brid­ge, pro­vi­ding the cap­ta­in a swe­eping vi­ew of his ship and the sea. Ra­dar con­so­les, na­vi­ga­ti­onal equ­ip­ment and com­pu­ters tic­ked and be­eped and glo­wed be­ne­ath the win­dows.

  Cap­ta­in Eric Ko­be was wa­iting for them with his ra­dio ope­ra­tor. The ra­dio ope­ra­tor was short and pudgy and ga­ve them a fri­endly smi­le. The cap­ta­in was tall and spa­re and now­he­re ne­ar as wel­co­ming as his su­bor­di­na­te. Of­fe­ring them a me­re dip of his he­ad in­s­te­ad of a han­d­s­ha­ke, Ko­be ac­k­now­led­ged each of his vi­si­tors bri­efly be­fo­re ze­ro­ing in on Jack.

  "I un­der­s­tand you ha­ve vi­tal in­for­ma­ti­on re­gar­ding my ship, Ma­j­or Do­no­van."

  Cleo sympat­hi­zed with the man. She'd pro­bably cut right to the cha­se, too, if she we­re ha­uling fi­ve mil­li­on po­unds of ex­p­lo­si­ves ac­ross an oce­an. Still, a mug of the cof­fee slos­hing aro­und in the cof­fe­ema­ker at the re­ar of the brid­ge wo­uld ha­ve be­en ni­ce.

  The cap­ta­in ca­ught her glan­ce and is­su­ed a ter­se com­mand. "So­me cof­fee for our gu­ests, Mr. Wes­ter­beck. If you ple­ase," he ad­ded curtly, as if the co­ur­tesy pa­ined him.

  The first of­fi­cer ac­cep­ted or­ders for two black cof­fe­es and one with cre­am. Johan­na dec­li­ned ref­res­h­ment. As Wes­ter­beck mo­ved away, the plump ra­dio of­fi­cer ed­ged clo­ser. Cu­ri­osity gle­aming in his dark eyes, he to­ok up a po­si­ti­on just be­hind his cap­ta­in's left sho­ul­der.

  Ko­be fol­ded his arms. A frown cre­ased his fo­re­he­ad. Eyes nar­ro­wed, he ad­dres­sed Jack. "Now, Spe­ci­al Agent Do­no­van, what ha­ve you he­ard re­gar­ding the Pit­sen­bar­ger?"

  "Un­for­tu­na­tely, not­hing spe­ci­fic, sir. But we ha­ve re­ason to be­li­eve it may be tar­ge­ted for pos­sib­le hi­j­ac­king."

  The cap­ta­in's jaw set. Brows lo­we­ring, he blin­ked se­ve­ral ti­mes and gla­red at Do­no­van. "By whom?"

  "We ha­ven't be­en ab­le to pin that down." "Well, hell, man! What ha­ve you be­en ab­le to pin down?"

  "An in­di­vi­du­al by the na­me of Ad­ri­an Mus­ta­fa Mo­ore en­te­red the Uni­ted Sta­tes three months ago using a fal­se pas­sport is­su­ed un­der the na­me of Frank Helms. We've lin­ked him to an em­p­lo­yee at Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering…"

  The cap­ta­in's eyes cut to Marc. "Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering. Is that you?" "It is."

  "Yo­ur com­pany did the NOx emis­si­on-con­t­rol de­sign and ret­ro­fit on the Pits." "Yes, we did."

  "And you're tel­ling me an em­p­lo­yee of yo­urs got in­vol­ved with so­me­one who en­te­red the U.S. un­der a fal­se pas­sport?" "Yes."

  His eye­lids twit­c­hed aga­in, fu­ri­o­usly. "I don't li­ke what I'm he­aring he­re."

  Marc frow­ned and left it to Jack to an­s­wer.

  "Ne­it­her did we. Par­ti­cu­larly af­ter Slo­an's em­p­lo­yee tur­ned up de­ad and we de­ter­mi­ned so­me­one had used her pas­sword to ac­cess the en­gi­ne­ering sche­ma­tics of the Pits."

  "So­me­one?" Ko­be ec­ho­ed, as his first ma­te re­tur­ned with a fis­t­ful of mugs. "That's the best you can do?"

  "We tra­ced Ad­ri­an Mo­ore to Mal­ta, whe­re we lost him. We tra­ced the com­pu­ter qu­ery to a ser­ver in Cyprus, yo­ur next port of call." Jack he­si­ta­ted a mo­ment, as if re­luc­tant to add me­re gos­sip to his thin pi­le of facts. "We've al­so pic­ked up so­me chat­ter in­di­ca­ting a wil­lin­g­ness by a cer­ta­in bro­ker to ne­go­ti­ate the sa­le of any car­go off the Pits."

  "Gi­ve me a na­me," the cap­ta­in snap­ped.

  "We don't ha­ve one, sir. Only a han­d­le. He go­es by Do­mi­no."

  Ko­be's fa­ce fol­ded in dis­gust. "I've he­ard ru­mors abo­ut the man."

  "I've he­ard ru­mors abo­ut him, too," the ra­dio ope­ra­tor put in. He had a soft, al­most gir­lish vo­ice, a pup­py-dog fa­ce and milk-whi­te hands. "So­me pe­op­le re­fer to this Do­mi­no as a mo­dern-day pi­ra­te," the ra­dio ope­ra­tor ad­ded on a gig­gle. "A re­al swas­h­buc­k­ler."

  "He's a dam­ned sca­ven­ger," the cap­ta­in co­un­te­red coldly, "fe­eding off the swe­at, blo­od and bo­nes of ho­nest se­amen."

  Put in his pla­ce, the ra­dio man hun­c­hed his sho­ul­ders and step­ped back a pa­ce. He wo­uld ha­ve lo­oked abas­hed if not for the twin­k­le in his dark eyes. Cleo gu­es­sed he to­ok a ton­gue-las­hing re­gu­larly from this stern, un­s­mi­ling cap­ta­in.

  "I tig­h­te­ned se­cu­rity on­bo­ard ship af­ter yo­ur ini­ti­al com­mu­ni­que," Ko­be in­for­med them. "We're in con­s­tant com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on with the Mi­li­tary Se­alift Com­mand's Cri­sis Ope­ra­ti­ons Cen­ter. They in­form me that both the air for­ce and the navy are pre­pa­red to fly co­ver for the Pits sho­uld I re­qu­est it."

  "That's cor­rect, sir. We're al­so flying a de­tac­h­ment of ma­ri­nes in­to Cyprus. They'll be gu­ar­ding the dock when you ste­am in­to port."

  That was news to Cleo. Jack hadn't men­ti­oned that the Old Man was sen­ding in the ma­ri­nes, but then Do­no­van ra­rely sho­wed his who­le hand.

  Ko­be ac­cep­ted the news with anot­her dip of his he­ad. Johan­na, who'd re­ma­ined si­lent up to this po­int, vo­iced the con­cern of the Bri­tish go­ver­n­ment.

  "We're co­ope­ra­ting with the Ame­ri­cans in this, Cap­ta­in. Ad­ri­an Mo­ore is a Bri­tish su­bj­ect. We'd li­ke to find him and le­arn his ro­le in the re­cent de­ath of one of our agents."

  "I as­su­re you, I wo­uld very much li­ke you to find him, too."

  "You men­ti­oned you've tig­h­te­ned se­cu­rity abo­ard the Pit­sen­bar­ger," Jack sa­id. "Per­haps we co­uld re­vi­ew yo­ur plan and of­fer an out­si­der's per­s­pec­ti­ve."

  "Are you qu­ali­fi­ed to as­sess the sa­fety of a ship at sea, Spe­ci­al Agent Do­no­van?"

  The qu­es­ti­on ca­me from the first of­fi­cer, but the cap­ta­in ap­pe­ared ke­enly in­te­res­ted in the an­s­wer.

  "I've so­me ex­pe­ri­en
­ce to draw on, Mr. Wes­ter­beck. So do­es my Bri­tish col­le­ague. And Ms. North is one of the top pri­va­te-se­cu­rity con­sul­tants in the bu­si­ness."

  Cleo kept her jaw from drop­ping. Ba­rely. Jack ne­ver pas­sed out com­p­li­men­ts-un­less they had to do with la­ce-trim­med bo­xers.

  "With Mr. Slo­an's ex­per­ti­se in ship de­sign," Do­no­van con­ti­nu­ed, ad­dres­sing him­self to the cap­ta­in, "we can bring a fresh set of eyes to yo­ur pro­tec­ti­ve ap­pro­ach."

  "With all due res­pect, sir, I don't think.

  Ko­be si­len­ced his first of­fi­cer with a fri­gid lo­ok. "We can ne­ver be too ca­uti­o­us when it co­mes to the sa­fety of this ship, Mr. Wes­ter­beck. Ple­ase es­cort our gu­ests to my war­d­ro­om. I'll no­tify the se­cond of­fi­cer and ha­ve him bri­ef you on our se­cu­rity ar­ran­ge­ments be­fo­re ta­king you on a to­ur of the ship. Per­haps you'd li­ke so­me lunch whi­le you re­vi­ew the plan?"

  Yes!

  The first of­fi­cer's lips fol­ded. Ob­vi­o­usly pi­qu­ed that a clutch of lan­d­lub­bers wo­uld qu­es­ti­on plans put in pla­ce by men with sal­t­wa­ter run­ning thro­ugh the­ir ve­ins, he shot a lo­ok be­hind the cap­ta­in's back at the ra­dio ope­ra­tor.

  The pudgy lit­tle se­aman was stan­ding to the cap­ta­in's re­ar, ba­rely wit­hin Cleo's fi­eld of vi­ew. His res­pon­se to his first of­fi­cer's lo­ok was so slight she al­most mis­sed it. Not qu­ite a nod, not qu­ite a shrug, it was just eno­ugh to dri­ve every tho­ught of fo­od right out of her he­ad.

  She'd hung up her mi­li­tary uni­form ye­ars ago. Un­less cus­toms and co­ur­te­si­es had chan­ged dras­ti­cal­ly, tho­ugh, of­fi­cers didn't wa­it for ap­pro­val from su­bor­di­na­tes be­fo­re com­p­l­ying with or­ders from the­ir su­pe­ri­ors. Every ner­ve in her body kic­ked in­to over­d­ri­ve as Wes­ter­beck her­ded his vi­si­tors to­ward the sta­irs. Marc star­ted for the com­pa­ni­on­way and pul­led up short at the high-tech ra­dar dis­p­lay.

 

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