by Chris Thrall
- 43 -
Hans and Penny cozied up in the cockpit as Future made three to four knots under a canopy of stars.
“Hans, how did you get into detective work?”
“Oh, good question. You know I said I loved reading as a kid?”
“Hmm.”
“There used to be a book series, the Hardy Boys, about two brothers who solved crimes and stuff. Did you have this in England?”
“Of course. And don’t forget Nancy Drew.”
“What about the Three Investigators?”
“Hah! Jupiter . . . ?”
“Jones and his buddies Pete Crenshaw and Bob Andrews, the supersleuths, always jealous of Skinny Norris because he was old enough to drive a car.”
“I read them all.”
“Me too. I even went through a spell with my friend Adrian when we made ourselves detective kits. You know, like in hopes we’d solve a mystery of our own.”
“Detective kits?”
“These little backpacks. Put all kinds of stuff in them, like magnifying glasses and talcum powder to dust for fingerprints. Used to collect spare keys in case we might be able to open a door with them. Stole our moms’ hair grips to try and pick locks.”
“Any luck?”
“Not a lot, but we figured out how to escape from a locked room.”
“Tell me.”
“You push a sheet of newspaper under the door and poke a knife blade through the keyhole. The key drops onto the paper, you pull it back under the gap and – hey presto! – you let yourself out.”
“Neat trick.”
“It was at that age. We even made blowpipes from the bamboo plants in Adrian’s backyard and little darts out of sewing needles and bird feathers. Kinda thought we were James Bond.”
“Did you ever solve any crimes?”
“No, we never came across any, just liked the excitement of living like our heroes. One time I even wore a disguise – like those guys were always putting on disguises, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I had on my mother’s fur coat and these long boots, and I pulled a big flowery hat down over my face.”
“You’re joking!”
“No, I’m serious. I wanted to experience being undercover – to see if I’d get away with it. Took my little brother’s pram and pushed it around the block. Walked right past a load of kids I knew and none of them said a word.”
“No one recognized you?”
“Nah. When I told them later, they said they thought it was some weird old lady passing by. I wish I never told them, though . . .”
“How come?”
“You try explaining why you’re wearing women’s clothes when you’re an eleven-year-old boy.”
“I see.”
“Some of them still remind me of it today.” Hans chuckled.
“So you always wanted to be a detective?”
“Kinda, but mostly a pipe dream. Like a lotta things in my life, I ended up falling into it.”
“As you do.” Penny looked up and smiled.
“A lot of my SEAL buddies left the navy around the same time I did, during the Iraq conflict. Jobs came up in the Middle East doing private security work, and guys could get paid three times as much on contracts out there than they did working for Uncle Sam.”
“And you did that?”
“It was tempting. Every man and his dog was doing a year and paying off their mortgages, even national guardsmen with no experience of combat. I couldn’t get to grips with the ethics of it all. I’d seen enough senseless killing – certainly enough of the desert – and Kerry was pregnant with Jess.”
“What did you do?”
“I wanted to join the police department as a rookie and work my way up. The DUI on my record put paid to that.”
“Drunk driving?”
“Yeah, said I could get a job in admin – answering the phone in traffic or typing up witness statements. Like I was gonna do that.”
“So you started an investigation agency?”
“Not quite. Kerry was always real positive, you know? Kinda like you.”
“Aw.” Penny snuggled tighter.
“No, I mean it. Always the glass half-full. She said, when you need an answer, open your eyes and it will find you. So I’m sitting in a bar one night, doing what I did best back then – drowning my sorry ass – and I get talking to the guy on the next stool. Harry Ross was his name – ‘Rosco.’ Turns out he’s a private eye – real old-school type like Mike Hammer, with the same drink problem.”
Penny didn’t know who Mike Hammer was but nodded anyway.
“So after a time listening to him talk about his work, I asked straight out if he could give me a job.”
“Did he?”
“No, he laughed. Said there’s a lot more to detective work than you see on TV.”
“In what way?”
“Well, for a start folks only hire PIs when they’re desperate.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if the police and all their resources can’t get the answer they’re looking for, they turn to you. You’re one guy trying to solve a mystery a hundred or more professionals just gave up on . . . which to be honest ain’t always a bad thing.”
“It’s not?”
“Cops always look for the quick result, and they can be pretty useless at the best of times. Then there’s the boredom factor. Starting out, you’re likely to be sat in your car for hours drinking coffee and trying to stay awake, just to expose a spouse’s infidelity or a fraudulent disability benefit claim.”
“Hardly exciting.”
“Not exactly busting the big stuff. Anyway, Rosco says to come by his office and he’ll give me details of a case he’s been working on. A real tough one, where he reckoned the cops hadn’t done their job.”
“I’m listening.” Penny went to check on Jessica and returned with a couple of beers. “So if you got to the bottom of it he’d take you on.”
“That’s how I understood it, but we were pretty drunk. He didn’t expect me to show up.”
“But you did.”
“My diary was kinda empty, and it’s not like I had anything to lose. Neither did he.” Hans pulled the tab on his beer. “Turns out a retired businessman had offered to pay two hundred thousand bucks to find his daughter. Said ‘Keira’ went missing on a scuba dive down in the Keys while vacationing with her husband.”
“A scuba dive? How did he expect you to find her body? I mean, they must have carried out searches and stuff.”
“Ha, that’s a story for another day.”
“So you solved the case and got a job as a private eye?”
“I got more than that. Rosco was looking to retire. He gave me a half share of the reward money and eventually let me buy him out of the business.”
“The Larsson Investigation Agency.”
“That’s what it became.”
The two of them cuddled in silence for a while. Penny desperately wanted to ask Hans about Kerry and JJ’s deaths, but she knew he would tell her when the time was right. She put it to the back of her mind and instead mused on how fortunate she was to have met him. She hadn’t felt this way for quite some time.
After a while, “Penny, you ever gonna tell me your story?” Hans asked.
“Mine?”
“You pretty much know ours.”
Penny was about to remind Hans that a crucial chunk of the Larsson history was missing, but, not wanting to ruin the moment, she kept shtum.
“How did you end up on a yacht in the North Atlantic?”
“It’s what I’ve always done, Hans – nearly always. I graduated from uni as a veterinary nurse. Because I grew up on yachts, my parents wanted me to experience a ‘normal’ career.”
“Not for you then?”
“I enjoyed it, don’t get me wrong – practiced for three years in London after graduation. But the pull of the sea . . . It’s hard to resist.”
“So what happened?”
“I
got a job on a luxury yacht owned by the sultan of Oman, traveled the world working my way up from deckhand to get my skipper’s ticket. Been crewing ever since.”
“And you never felt like settling down – getting married, having kids?”
“Of course I thought about it. But relationships at sea tend to be pretty short-lived.”
“Passing ships?”
“Exactly.”
“So there’s never been anyone special?”
“There was one guy, from Miami, hired me to sail his yacht around the Caribbean. He was young, handsome and wealthy, and I was . . . well, young and naïve. We had what you might call a passionate romance. I really thought it was meant to be.”
“What happened?”
“On the way back to the States he disclosed a wife and two kids.”
“Oh.”
“You can say that again! I guess the Cher keep fit and Disney DVDs were a bit of a giveaway.”
They laughed and snuggled tighter.
“Penny, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“It’s just that Jessie, she thinks the world of you – and I do too.”
“Aw.” Penny buried her head in Hans’ chest.
“Would you come visit us in the US? I mean, I’d pay your flight and everything, and you wouldn’t need to spend a dime—”
“Honey!” She cupped his face in her hands. “I make a great deal of money ferrying rich businessmen around the globe and teaching their pampered brats to scuba dive, and it’s not as if there’s a lot a girl needs to spend her money on in the middle of the ocean. Of course I’ll come, and pay my own way. It’s about time I tested my land legs.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! I’m assuming there are sailing schools in Portland?”
“Shyeah!”
“Well, in that case I might just stay awhile.”
Their lips met – and this time no one interrupted them to go fishing.
- 44 -
As Kuro stood on a production line in Japan, wearing primrose overalls, a protective hairnet and antistatic boots, sailing was far from his mind. In fact, he had never been on a yacht in his life.
The working day started as normal. Rise at 5:00 a.m., shower, fresh shirt and the same sickly yellow tie, eat a breakfast of steamed rice, miso soup and rolled omelet with his parents, and then take the high-speed rail link from their home in Hasuda to the factory in Oyama.
A shift at Hitachi always began with a motivational speech delivered by Minakuchi-san, the plant manager. Somewhat lacking as an orator, Minakuchi-san simply regurgitated white-collar rhetoric, which proved a constant source of amusement for the younger employees, who would drop such jargon as “product focused” and “target driven” into their lunchtime conversations, along with furtive giggles. Then came the morning warm-up routine, exercises deemed to create wa, “harmony,” in the working environment.
Graceful, confident and in time with the clonking piano waltz piped over the public address system, the beautiful Aiko had yet to realize Kuro stood near her whenever a space was available. The thoughts and feelings the young man experienced were confusing and somewhat shameful, certainly not ones to air over family dinner when asked how his day went.
Kuro would happily have spent the entire shift bending and twisting to the manager’s stilted instruction if it resulted in further peeks at Aiko’s pert figure and proximity to her magical aura, but the music ended abruptly, and the employees turned in file and scurried to their workstations.
Kuro’s role in the manufacturing process was plugging diodes, capacitors and microchips into circuit boards, ready for soldering and fitting into the company’s latest widescreen television, the Hitachi 42-ES-1080. Complete with HD, surround sound and VGA connector, the set was taking the market by storm, particularly in the US, where shipments couldn’t reach the distributors fast enough. If he proved his worth on this section of the conveyor belt, in the next two to three years he could see promotion to quality control – test-inspecting the motherboards’ complex architecture to prevent imperfections entering the build phase.
Who knew: the year after he could be looking at a supervisor’s position. And boy, with the big bucks rolling in he could save up the deposit for an apartment and make his move on Aiko.
- 45 -
When Hans relieved Penny for the 4:00 a.m. watch, he could see she was exhausted, the events of the previous week having caught up with her. Penny’s mind had been working overtime, and sleeping was a problem, so Hans fetched a double-strength Valium from the first aid kit.
Sitting in the darkness, Cape Verde sixty miles ahead, he reflected on the trip so far and what an education it had been for Jessica. He also thought about their dear friend’s untimely demise, something he decided to keep from his daughter.
The low but distinct rumbling of a diesel engine interrupted his muse. Instinctively, he scanned around, expecting to see another boat passing in close proximity, a regular occurrence when sailing near to land. All he saw were far-distant cargo carriers and tankers spread out across the horizon like a string of fairy lights.
This ship was much closer, and the fact it was under way with no running lights put Hans instantly on guard. He switched off Future’s navigation beacons and listened. Sure enough, the dull throbbing grew louder as the unknown vessel approached.
Changing course to run with the breeze, Hans hoped it was a maverick fishing trawler whose captain held scant regard for sea safety. Yet after forty-five minutes it became obvious the mystery craft was tracking Future on radar.
In the emerging half-light, Hans made out an ugly black hulk less than a quarter of a mile to starboard. Through the binoculars he could see activity on deck as the crew lowered a skiff onto the water. He felt certain he knew what was on the cards and considered waking Penny but then dismissed the idea, figuring in her sedated state she could serve no purpose. He also thought about radioing for help, but this far offshore it was not as if the Cape Verde coastguard would miraculously appear on the scene. Besides, if the other vessel was listening in it would warn them, and the uninvited guests might arrive with guns blazing.
Instead, Hans lowered his shoulders and took a few deep breaths, visualizing the tension flowing from his body. Then he went into the cabin and fetched a bucket from the cleaning store, the emergency flare gun and a two-gallon can of gas. As an afterthought, he grabbed the bulk pack of firecrackers bought in the hypermarket in France. Back in the cockpit, he filled the bucket with fuel, fitted a cartridge to the gun and shoved the opened packet of bangers in the waistband of his shorts. Then he did what Navy SEALs do best – he watched and waited.
The skiff approached at speed.
Hans continued his reconnaissance, observing three ragtag Africans on board, one of them operating the powerful outboard motor. On further inspection he made out another man lying under the thwarts.
The American worked through the scenario in his head: a mother ship pursuing them with no lights while maintaining radio silence, a souped-up launch ideally matched to the speed of a yacht and an “injured” crew member providing a convenient reason for requiring assistance.
As the skiff covered the last few yards, its occupants made a play of waving and calling for help in broken English, but the nervousness in their eyes spoke for them. Noting each man had a hessian sack at his feet, Hans had seen enough and put on a show of his own, gesturing he was heaving to and steering Future into the wind.
With the engine cut, the skiff glided to within a few feet of the yacht, and the bowman prepared to throw a mooring line. In one fluid movement Hans climbed up on the cockpit cushions, placed a foot on the coaming and emptied the bucket of gas over the visitors. Then he stood there motionless, staring into the eyes of the obvious leader while aiming the flare gun at his head.
For a moment the pirates were utterly bewildered, mouthing words as they looked alternatively at Hans and each other before the bowman screamed, “Gazolin!” and div
ed over the side. The injured man made a remarkable recovery and scrambled after him, as did the helmsman, but the leader held fast, whipping an AK-47 out from under his sack and swinging the barrel toward Hans.
Whoomph!
A streaking white rocket smashed into the man’s chest, knocking him overboard as an orange-and-yellow fireball engulfed the wooden craft. In the same instant Hans lobbed the firecrackers and ducked back into the cockpit, his hair singeing in the intense heat. He reached for the engine starter button, and as fire tore across the water, creeping up Future’s hull, her two-liter diesel spurred into life. Hans shoved the throttle forward, and the yacht roared away from the danger zone, a cacophony of bangs, thumps and whizzes resulting from the firecrackers and ammunition lying in the pool of burning fuel in the skiff.
Hans wrenched a fire extinguisher from its bracket and turned to survey the blaze, just as the pirate leader attempted to drag himself over the guardrail, bloody melted skin dripping from his face, arms and torso. The American swung the hefty red canister in a high arc and brought it down with a crunch on the man’s head, sending him reeling into Future’s wake. To the sound of ever-more-distant confusion, he set about dousing the remaining flames.
Later that morning Penny emerged from the cabin, the effects of the extra-strong sleeping pill obvious, to find Hans and Jessica barbequing the leftover tuna, along with thick strips of bacon and fat pork-and-apple butcher’s sausages.
“Morning, sleeping beauty. You look as though you still have ninety-nine years left to snooze.”
“Aw, you can say that again. I had the most bizarre dream . . .”
She caught sight of the scorch marks on the cockpit cushions.
“Hans, what happened?”
“Oh, I got a bit overzealous with the lighter fluid. Had a bit of a flameout.”
“Had a bit of a flameout.” Jessica concentrated on flipping a tuna steak.
- 46 -
In Alfonso’s birthplace long outrigged canoes with mighty engines took preference over yachts, but as the Filipino sat in his crane forty meters above the dock in Yokohama, both pleasure craft and homeland were far from his mind. Instead, Alfonso concentrated on swinging a twelve-ton container toward the already packed deck of the Tokyo Pride.
