The Last Passenger

by Manel Loureiro

  Then, she began to walk again with more confidence. She headed toward the staircase leading to the upper deck. In her hands she held a tool kit and a roll of cable. She paused at the foot of the stairs to stuff a few things in her pockets. It took her an eternity as if the instructions she’d been given were not being clearly communicated to her hands. Finally, when she managed to put the last item in her pocket, she took hold of the banister and began climbing up the stairs, exiting the frame.

  “This is one hour and ten minutes later,” the operator said, pressing another button that made the image jump to the instant Senka’s feet appeared again on the stairs.

  This time she was totally soaked. She was no longer clumsy like before. Her face was completely exposed. She looked scared, and her body was trembling uncontrollably.

  But most of all she looked confused. And terrified.

  Looking all around, she crouched down to avoid being seen, and sneaking off the bridge, she disappeared from the screen.

  Kate was horrified. Senka? She couldn’t believe it. That woman adored Feldman to no end. Kate had gotten the sense that he was like a father figure to her. There was no way she was a spy for Wolf und Klee.

  “Very good,” Moore said with satisfaction. “It seems we’ve found our traitor. Do we know who she is?”

  Captain Harper cracked his knuckles, and another crew member came over with a heavy book in his hands. He began leafing through it. Kate watched as color photographs of all the passengers flipped by page after page.

  “Here we are,” Harper said in triumph. “First-class passenger Senka Simovic, Serbian nationality. Cabin fifteen.”

  “Serbian, eh?” Moore mumbled as if he had never heard of the woman he had worked with side by side for several years. “We’re going to have to talk with our little Communist immediately.”

  From where he stood in the corner of the radio room, Feldman heaved out bizarre, asthmatic laughter. Kate noticed with disgust that he was drooling.

  “She might have accomplices on board,” the old man murmured, throwing a homicidal glare at Kate.

  “Not to worry, Herr Feldman.” Moore looked sadistic. “We’ll know shortly. Kommen Sie!”

  He made an abrupt sign to his men, and all of them, except Harper and his crew, filed out. Feldman stayed on the bridge and looked out of the window. His mind seemed to be wandering further from reality.

  Kate ran after the group, certain that everything was just a silly misunderstanding. The recording had to be fake. Perhaps the ship itself had created it. If it could make hundreds of passengers appear out of thin air, then it could certainly make a fake tape. Still, there was nothing she could say to convince Moore and his men. Hopefully Senka could.

  They ran down the hall toward Senka’s cabin. When they got to the door, Moore’s men stationed themselves on both sides of it. The muscular Brit planted himself in front and knocked with such force that the hinges creaked.

  “Senka Simovic! Open the door!”

  There was a moment of silence before a muffled voice came from inside. A few seconds later they could hear the lock being undone. The door opened and there was Senka. She looked groggy, like she had just awoken from a particularly intense dream. She was wearing only a T-shirt and cotton panties. A streak of dried blood ran from her nose down to the collar of her shirt.

  “What’s going on, Moore?” she said sleepily.

  The head of security smiled and then brought his hand back and slapped Senka. She was caught unaware, and her head smacked the door frame. She fell to the floor, and her nose started bleeding again.

  “Senka Simovic, you are under arrest in the name of the German Reich on charges of sabotage, conspiracy, and destruction of property belonging to the Reich,” Moore snarled. “Take her away.”

  Senka blinked, far too confused to respond. Her eyes, full of fear, darted from face to face in hopes of finding some semblance of understanding.

  “Moore. What the hell are you talking about?” she stuttered from the floor. “It’s me, dammit. I don’t know what the hell—”

  Moore kicked Senka in her ribs with all the force he could muster, and she doubled over on the floor, gasping for breath. Moore’s men grabbed her and yanked her to her feet.

  Senka’s horrified eyes fell on Kate, and the two exchanged a panicked look of understanding.

  “Kate,” she gasped. “Help me—”

  This time Moore closed his fist before hitting her. Blood began openly pouring from her mouth.

  “Quiet, bitch,” Moore snarled. “Take her to the brig.”

  “You can’t treat her like that,” Kate shouted.

  “She’s a traitor,” Moore said, eyeing Kate with the look of wanting to pick a fight. “As far as I know, you might be one, too, missy. Maybe fucking Communists work in pairs.” He pointed his thumb at Kate and looked over at his men. “Lock up this one in her cabin until we figure out what to do with her. She’s to have contact with nobody until I say otherwise.”

  XXXV

  Will Paxton, the geologist whose expertise was submarine formations, felt off.

  He was in his cabin, lying in bed in his dirty shirt and boxers. Racked by emotion, he was trying to emerge from the mists of the most extraordinary and powerful dream he’d ever had.

  The dream had been about a gala dance in the Valkyrie’s main hall. All around him were women dressed like flappers, while the men who weren’t in uniform wore tuxedos.

  Paxton was in the middle of a group, holding a glass of champagne and laughing hysterically at something someone had said, though he could not recall what. When he’d looked in the mirror, he remembered being surprised that, instead of his usual wrinkled blue suit, he was wearing the impeccable and handsome uniform belonging to a captain of the Wehrmacht.

  A band was playing in the background as a few couples danced feverishly, as if lit by an inner fire to shake and sweat across the dance floor. The place was hot and humid, like a room being heated in the middle of August. But nobody cared. The air had a thick, sweet scent with subtle undertones of burnt oil and something like rotting flesh.

  Someone at the back of the room raised a glass. Paxton could have sworn it was a tipsy Cherenkov, wearing a snug tuxedo with buttons about to shoot off at any moment.

  “Long live the Thousand-year Reich,” Cherenkov bellowed in German, flushed, and without the slightest trace of a Russian accent. “To Greater Germany and our beloved Führer, Adolf Hitler!”

  Everyone raised a glass. Even the dancers were pulled out of their hypnosis momentarily to turn and smile at Cherenkov.

  “To our Führer, Adolf Hitler! Sieg Heil!” the entire hall shouted in unison.

  “Sieg Heil!” Paxton followed suit, overcome by an inexplicable wave of excitement. “Sieg Heil!”

  With a single gulp he downed the champagne and grabbed another one from a passing waiter. Adrenaline made his entire body tremble. He brushed an imaginary speck off his uniform and had another look in the mirror as he straightened his jacket. Never in his life had he felt so alive and powerful. A heavy buzz reverberated in his mind and impeded his thinking. His emotions, however, were loose and fought among themselves to be let out. Paxton was happy, anxious, excited, and nervous all at once. It was wonderful.

  Strolling through the hall, he took in all of the details. Flags decorated with swastikas hung over the tables as dozens of waiters carrying appetizers and cocktails continued to file in and out of the elevators that shuttled between the kitchens. The civilians he came across let him gallantly pass by and offered up toasts and deferent smiles, all while admiring the gleaming medals on his chest.

  It was then that Paxton felt as if a tiny hand were clenching part of his head and squeezing as hard as possible. He stopped, dizzy and incapable of taking another step under such intense pain. He fell back in a seat and gasped for breath.

  Then, he saw her: the nosy reporter Feldman had brought on the expedition. She was in the middle of the dance floor, clearly terrified,
her head swiveling in all directions. She could not see him as he was seated. But the geologist had a moment to delight in the way she was dressed. She was wearing a pair of jeans—the ones that leave nothing to the imagination—and a tight blue blouse that showed off her breasts. Paxton was certain she was doing it to get attention. They always wanted attention. They were all whores.

  The pain in his mind sharpened, and he heard a voice. It was as clear as someone whispering right in his ear.

  You see that little slut, Willie? You see how she sways and tries to be the damned star of the show?

  Paxton nodded, unable to breathe. He undid the top button of his uniform.

  She shouldn’t be here, Willie. This is not her place. She befouls this immaculate setting.

  “No,” he droned, his mouth dry as sand. “She should not be here.”

  There’s no room in the Great Reich for little Jewish sluts like her, right, Willie? I’m sure she’s a Jew. Only a Jewish whore would come dressed like that to a place like this. She’s trying to distract healthy and rational German men from their duties.

  Beaded with sweat, Paxton gurgled out his approval. He was starting to see double. A waiter handed him a handkerchief while making an indistinct motion. Paxton accepted it before realizing that the waiter was pointing toward his nose. He dabbed his nose, and when he examined the handkerchief, it was wet with blood. Trying to stanch the bleeding, he heard a distant voice in his head inquire whether this seemed odd. But he did not listen to that voice. He only had ears for her. For her voice.

  So, Willie? What are you going to do? Are you going to let her laugh at you like all those other little whores in your life, or are you going to teach her a lesson?

  A sense of wrathful hatred, strong and pure, was growing inside Paxton, nearly drowning him. Simultaneously, a formidable erection had sprouted in his pants.

  “I’ll teach her a lesson all right,” he said, stumbling to his feet. “I’ll teach that bitch a lesson she’ll never forget. She’ll scream, she’ll scream good.”

  Kate looked up as if alarmed, and Paxton turned around and saw the ship’s captain—what the hell was his name? He knew it, but it refused to be found in the mush that was his mind. Whatever his name, the captain was instructing two waiters to go after Kate, who was one step ahead and hurrying out of the main hall.

  Go after her, Willie. Make sure she never bothers you ever again.

  Paxton began pushing his way across the dance floor. His bloody nose had begun to run down his uniform, tracing sinuous designs over the verdigris fabric, but that was of little importance. The only thing that mattered to Will Paxton was getting ahold of Kate.

  Making his way to the main staircase landing, he scanned the crowd and felt disoriented. He didn’t see her. At the bottom of the stairs, next to the wooden eagles, the two waiters looked equally confused. One of them decided to head in the direction of the bridge and the other in the opposite direction. Paxton punched the balustrade. The Jewish bitch had gotten away.

  He remained standing there a few minutes more, brimming with anger and a squall of other emotions. Although he did not know it, hundreds of small veins were about to burst in his head, unable to withstand the pressure any longer.

  The nursery, Willie. Run.

  Paxton frowned as a whisper of doubt crept slowly into the back of his mind. The voice sounded worried.

  Paxton shook his head and tried to think clearly. He’d never felt this bad, even after the time he’d gone through an entire bottle of tequila. Sweating, he began running down the stairs as fast as he could.

  At the bottom, as if out of nowhere, a tall man dressed in a handsome cream-colored suit blocked his path. Paxton tried to go around him, but the man prevented him from passing. The geologist looked up and felt a surge of hatred. The man, probably in his thirties, with angular features and dark hair, was looking at him with a strange glint in his eyes. There was something odd about him.

  “Get out of my way,” Paxton spat.

  “Where do you think you’re going? Don’t even think about touching my girl, you bastard,” said the man before punching Paxton in the face.

  The geologist fell backward, hitting his head against one of the stairs. Colorful little stars danced before his eyes and burst into utter darkness as he lost consciousness.

  And then, he woke up.

  He was lying in bed. The strong stench of smoke was in the air. The ship’s alarms were blaring, making for a hellish racket.

  He sat up in bed feeling dizzy and confused. He looked down at his plump legs and the blood-stained shirt pulled taut against his bulging belly. It looked nothing like the handsome uniform he had been wearing moments before.

  With a shaky hand, he reached out for the flask on the nightstand. The liquor was hot as it slid down his throat before exploding in his stomach with that same feeling of comfort that it always brought. He rubbed his eyes and tried to figure out his next step.

  It was just a stupid dream, Willie. Just a dumb dream.

  He stumbled to his feet and went into the bathroom. When he finished emptying his bladder, he stood before the mirror and turned pale. His eyes were bloodshot, but that was not what had scared him.

  He brought a hand up against his jaw, where an enormous bruise had begun to take on an ugly shade of purple.

  “This can’t be,” he moaned.

  With his other hand he felt the back of his head and found a bump the size of an egg.

  It had really happened. It had not been a dream.

  It had been here.

  He knew it was time to act.

  It was time to complete the mission Wolf und Klee had spent so long preparing him for.

  XXXVI

  He got dressed as fast as he could, taking care not to move his head too much as he put on a sweater. Once he was dressed he grabbed what he needed and went out into the hallway, where the alarms had finally been turned off. Two weary crew members were walking down the hall. One of them was covered in soot as if he had been dipped in ashes.

  “What happened?” Paxton asked, grabbing one of them by the arm. “Why are the alarms going off?”

  Dumbfounded, the sailor looked at Paxton. “Didn’t you hear the explosion? Someone’s planted a bomb or something on the communications tower. We’ve lost the satellite, radar, and God knows what else.”

  “A bomb?”

  The other sailor misinterpreted Paxton’s look and said, “Don’t worry. It’s all under control. The ship is in fine shape, and we’ve just sustained a bit of damage on the upper deck. It’s nothing dangerous. Plus, they’ve already found the person responsible.” The sailor issued a strange, dissonant cackle. “Moore is going to make a drum out of the skin on her ass.”

  Paxton nodded and looked lost. The crew members excused themselves and went on their way.

  The awful pain in his head returned as the welt began throbbing violently.

  Someone had planted a bomb, and it had not been him.

  There must be another spy aboard, Willie. There’s no other explanation.

  He felt a wave of relief come over him followed immediately by one of irritation for not being told about the alternate plan. The Elders had specifically chosen him. They had provided him with the best training in Syria, Venezuela, and in some shitty Russian republic whose name he couldn’t recall. They had molded him and supplied him with funds. They had given him a mission. He thought they trusted him.

  But now he discovered that some other fucking agent was aboard the Valkyrie, and nobody had said a word about it to him.

  Paxton gritted his teeth in rage as he walked down the hallway. He knew it was unwise for two agents to operate together. But not informing him of the other’s existence was simply irrational. They could have easily killed one another. He stopped in his tracks like he had run up against an invisible wall. What if the other spy knew of his existence? What if he was no more than a Plan B in case Plan A failed?

  Paxton had believed Wolf und Klee was
offering him the recognition and respect he had always deserved but been unfairly denied. As the third of four siblings, he was certain his parents did not love him as much as they loved the others. Throughout his life he had accumulated a long list of offenses, real and imagined, that he vowed to someday exact revenge for. They would all pay: his neighbors; colleagues; the board that had denied him tenure; the women who, inexplicably, had not fallen for his obvious charms; those girls who attended his classes, dressed in miniskirts, but never accepted his crude advances. They would all have to answer to him.

  Wolf und Klee had lavished him with the reverence and appreciation he had always wanted. Wolf und Klee. The wolf and clover. He was a wolf, a field agent, a fucking obtainer of things. That was why the Elders had considered him so valuable. Or at least that is what he had thought, until now.

  His wrath continued to surge as he walked down the hall, forcing the pleasant expression that had been carefully practiced for the voyage. Will Paxton, amiable geologist. Will Paxton, full of fun little anecdotes. Will Paxton, absentminded, kindhearted, and harmless. Innocuous as a field clover. At least until the wolf bares its teeth, hungry for blood.

  A flurry of voices coming from the end of the hallway rattled him out of his thoughts. A woman was shouting, and a bang followed. He stopped, his senses alert. Two of Moore’s men were walking toward him, dragging Senka, who was dressed in no more than panties and a blood-spattered T-shirt. Her face was swollen like she had been hit by a truck.

  They passed by him filled with hateful determination. Paxton stepped aside as he looked sidelong at the unconscious blonde.

  Paxton never would have suspected Senka Simovic as the other agent. Ever since boarding the ship, he had believed her to be the greatest obstacle in carrying out the mission. She was watchful like a hound and did not seem to trust anybody. The perfect cover, no doubt.

  But she had gotten herself caught, and that was a fatal flaw. The mission’s objective was crystal clear. They were to stop the Valkyrie from completing the voyage, without doing irreparable harm to the ship, and make it turn around and head back to port. Once there the Elders would take over. They would arrange for the authorities to seize the ship from Feldman. The Elders had pulled many strings to get the Treasury Department on his back. When the time was right, the Elders planned on ruining him and leaving him penniless. When the Valkyrie went up for public auction again, the Elders would be there to buy it. It was the perfect plan, which had been spoiled by the incredible swiftness with which the Jew had managed to launch the ship. Old Feldman was no fool.