by Joanne Pence
“We’re foreign registry. We can only dock once at a U.S. port between foreign ports—that’s U.S. law.”
“We have no choice,” Johansen said. “We’ve got a serious medical emergency.” He ordered two of the crewmen to carry Ingerson to his cabin, then turned back to the captain. “You’ve got to get on the radio and explain to Long Beach that we need to come into port. The man might die otherwise.”
Olafson, now also looking pale and shaky, most likely because of the thought of dealing with U.S. authorities, began nodding moments before the word “ja” emerged reluctantly from his lips.
As the officers went up to the bridge, and the other crewmen dispersed, Angie and Paavo were left alone on the deck once more.
“If there’s any problem with the port authorities letting the ship dock,” Angie said, “maybe you could contact the LAPD and get some names of higher-ups to talk to. Sometimes a little political clout is needed in cases like this.”
Paavo frowned as he stood at the rail and stared at the night lights of Los Angeles, a whitish glow on the horizon. He took a deep breath. As he exhaled, his frown disappeared and a small smile formed. “No need, Angie. I’m sure the captain will take care of everything.”
That answer was nothing like Paavo. In times of trouble, or when people were in need of help, he was always there doing his best. “But what if he can’t?” Angie said. “The captain’s got the spine of a jellyfish. And besides, who knows what’s wrong with Ingerson!”
“It’s none of our business, Angie. No one else is stepping in. The Neblars and Cockburns are probably already asleep. That’s what we should be doing—sleeping.”
Sleep? When a man was sick? Maybe dying? This blasé, uninterested person was not Paavo.
“What if the captain was right and he’s contagious?” she asked, not about to give up. Then a new thought came to her—one she was sure would ignite Paavo’s curiosity. “What if whatever is wrong with him is something the cook knew about, and that’s why he wanted off the ship?”
He leaned back against the rail, his tone one of relaxed insouciance. “If anything’s wrong, the proper authorities will take care of it. Johansen is clearly a man who can take charge and see that whatever’s necessary is done. It doesn’t concern us, Angie.” He smiled again. “We’re on vacation.”
The Hydra sneaked into the galley and tiptoed over to the baking powder. She wanted the microfilm safely in her possession before anything else strange happened on this ship. There was something about this trip that was making her nervous.
She reached for an open tin of baking powder and dug around in it, expecting to easily find the microfilm. She didn’t. She dumped the contents onto the counter and spread it around. No microfilm.
She reached for a box of baking soda. What did Sven know about cooking, anyway? To him, they were probably the same.
But it didn’t contain the microfilm either.
Before long, she’d pulled every open box, tin, and sack of flour, sugar, oatmeal, salt, spices, and even corn flakes off the shelf, dumped their contents onto the counter, and sifted through them. The microfilm still wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Her face and arms were covered with flour. She dumped the open food into garbage bags, then took a dish cloth and wiped off any traces from herself.
She was furious. So furious she couldn’t think of anything except emptying an automatic into Sven Ingerson’s lying, lazy body. Where in the hell had he put the microfilm? It wasn’t that small. Not a microdot, thank God, which could have been anywhere. She’d told the professor to leave the film about a half inch in size—small enough to easily hide, but not lose.
So much for planning.
If it wasn’t in the galley, it must still be in Ingerson’s quarters.
Or…he had been on the fourth deck when he passed out. Angie Amalfi’s room was on the fourth deck. Ingerson liked her.
No, she decided. He wouldn’t have dared.
8
Just below the Tropic of Cancer, high in the mountains overlooking Mazatlán, on the Pacific coast of Mexico, a high pink wall snaked around a compound, topped by electrified barbed wire and circled by a wide treeless swathe patrolled by surveillance cameras.
Inside the compound, a hacienda sprawled like a fleshy hand clutching the mountainous perch. Its walls were adobe and rock from the hillside, too thick to be penetrated by any bullet.
Each room of the hacienda was crammed with lavish yet gaudy furniture. In the massive living room the amount of gilt and brocade was blinding. Replicas of famous artworks covered the walls. Even the bulletproof glass windows that looked out over the mountains to the jungle far away were adorned with tasseled gold-and-red velvet draperies.
Gazing out of those windows at the moonlit sky was a man with wavy black hair, graying at the temples. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and black cotton slacks. A dab of blood from where he had cut himself shaving that morning stained the unbuttoned shirt collar. He was tall and barrel-chested, and stood with his shoulders squared, his chin high.
“I am at peace here, amigo,” Colonel Hector Ortega announced, his eyes never leaving the view. “I feel like God has reached down and touched this house, this land, for me alone. Here, finally, all I have worked for throughout my life, all I have wanted to achieve, will be mine.” He turned and smiled, his long, thick-jowled, and baggy-eyed face suddenly soft and wistful.
His friend and confidant, Eduardo Catalán, nearly choked on his scotch and water. “Yes, my colonel,” he said, struggling to talk despite the burning in his throat. “Everything will be most splendid for you.”
Catalán was as tall as the colonel, but thin and wiry where the colonel was round and sluggish. Even his gray hair was wiry; he kept it closely cropped in a stylish razor cut. His gray silk suit was handmade on Savile Row, his white shirt and tie Dior, and his shoes Gucci. He tugged at his slacks as he crossed one leg over the other.
Ortega lifted his head even higher, one hand fisted and pressed against the back of his waist as he strutted before the glass-covered wall. As if he were a real colonel, Eduardo thought, drinking more scotch to kill the ever-bitter taste in his mouth.
The colonel stopped before a statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner of the room and lit the votive candle in front of it. “This is to light the way for the woman who is bringing me my dream, even as we speak.” His eyes were bright as they again faced Eduardo. “The ship has sailed now. What she brings me is worth more than anyone could imagine, even in their wildest dreams. Only a handful of us know it exists. But soon, the whole world will know. And it will be mine.”
He peered hard at Eduardo. “Then my enemies will discover, finally, just how small and stupid they truly were. Everyone else will realize as well, which will be the ultimate revenge. They blocked my promotion to general when I deserved to be one! Everyone said so! But they stopped me. Soon, though, they will all come groveling at my feet.”
He took out a cigar and carefully cut off the tip, tamping the tobacco, before putting it to his lips and lighting it.
“Generale? Hah! I spit on their offer! I will be bigger than that. Bigger than el presidente. I will be the one who tells el presidente what to do.”
“Yes, my colonel,” Eduardo said, making sure he sounded undeniably sincere.
9
By ten in the morning, Angie was lying on a lounge chair on the main deck in a white Ann Taylor linen sundress and Liz Claiborne straw hat, with a pair of Armani sunglasses shielding her eyes, a dab of sunscreen on her nose. She’d missed breakfast. It was served at some ungodly hour, like seven-thirty or eight. She didn’t see any of the other passengers, and the few crewmen she saw working didn’t appear to speak English.
So she’d gathered her belongings and decided to sunbathe. She was watching a school of porpoises not far from the ship and pondering the abruptness of Paavo’s decision to quit his job when he joined her.
He sat in a lounge chair and unfolded a copy of that mor
ning’s Los Angels Times.
“Where did that come from?” she asked.
“A few copies were left in the passenger lounge, along with USA Today.”
The Times looked thick enough to keep Paavo occupied for half the trip. “Did you hear anything about the steward?” she asked.
“He was taken to an emergency room. That’s the last anyone knows.”
“They just left him there?”
“Apparently.” For all Paavo’s interest, he could have been discussing the weather.
The ship was now heading toward Baja California without one of its stewards. The whole thing seemed rather heartless to her, but if no one else cared, she shouldn’t let it bother her. Next stop, Cabo San Lucas.
With more than a little pique, Angie reached into the big tote bag she’d been filling with more and more essentials as the trip continued. She took out the latest novel she was reading. Hemingway. In the past, she’d never appreciated his books much, she was sorry to say, but a cruise seemed a good place to do some serious reading—and to impress Paavo while she was at it.
Before opening the book, though, she stole a quick glance at the newspaper headlines. She was already missing the San Francisco Chronicle, laden with gossip about politicians and society people—who, in San Francisco, were generally one and the same. Nothing in the more serious Times caught her attention. Paavo had told her they needed to leave the real world behind them. But now, as he pored over this great sea of newsprint, he didn’t seem to be applying that philosophy to himself.
“Any news stories about San Francisco?” she asked.
“We’ve been gone only one day,” Paavo said. “What could have happened? Wait, here’s something.”
She leaned forward with interest. “Oh?” Was it about the recent furor over one of the Forty-Niners dating a member of the board of supervisors, or maybe the escapades of a married judge and an equally married, well-known pop singer?
“A chemist from the Lawrence Lab, Dr. Conrad Von Mueller, was found dead in his office.”
“A murder.” She eased herself back against the sofa and opened her book. “I should have known.”
“Maybe not. The paper doesn’t say what he died from. But the story being in the news implies he didn’t the of natural causes.”
“Pardon me. I couldn’t help overhearing. Someone is dead?” The question, asked in an upper-crust British accent, cut into their conversation.
Angie gazed up and up at a mountain of a man. The most striking thing about him was his huge head, its bald crown shining and bulbous, circled by a fringe of thinning gray hair. His lower face bulged out into flabby, red-veined cheeks, followed by jowls extending almost to his chest and rendering his neck a long-ago memory.
His chest rolled onto a massive stomach, over which he wore a vest with a pocket watch. His white suit jacket was open, hanging loosely on either side of his paunch, its buttons and buttonholes strangers. In his hand was a white Panama hat.
“We were talking about a newspaper article,” Angie said, curious about the newcomer. “My name is Angelina Amalfi, and this is Paavo Smith.”
“Charmed, madam. And Mr. Smith. Ah, such a relief that it was just a story,” the Englishman said. “I’ve been informed that a steward was taken ill on board. It wasn’t the food, was it?”
“No one else is sick, so I wouldn’t worry about the food,” Angie said. “And you are…?”
“Oh, my!” the Englishman cried. “Pardon my bad manners! I just joined you last night. My name is Dudley Livingstone. I’m a collector. South American artifacts, to be precise.”
They shook hands.
“Did you board in Long Beach?” Angie said. “I didn’t realize we were taking on more passengers.”
“I was quite fortunate.” Livingstone eased his great bulk into a metal deck chair beside them. Angie watched the chair legs bow slightly. “The ship I was supposed to have been on left three days early, and I missed it. I’d been spending the past twenty-four hours berating the Los Angeles port authority when they got word about the emergency on this ship. Since the Valhalla is going to Chile, which is where I’m headed, the harbormaster arranged for me to get on.”
“You were lucky,” Angie said. “We weren’t supposed to stop there.”
“So I understand.” Livingstone folded his hands over his round belly. “So, do tell me, are you going far? All the way to South America, or will this be a short jaunt?”
“We’ll be leaving the ship in Acapulco,” Angie answered.
“A beautiful city. One of my favorites,” Livingstone said. “What about the others? Do you know?”
“One couple disembarks at Cabo San Lucas, I believe. I’m not sure about the other. How long will it take you to get to Chile?”
“Nearly two weeks, I expect, with all the stopovers along the way—which is, of course, the joy of freighter travel,” he said. “I do hope I’ll have some companions beside the crew. But anyway, back to the newspaper article. It sounded rather interesting. Who did you say was dead?”
“Some professor from the Lawrence Lab,” Paavo answered. “Conrad Von Mueller.”
Livingstone’s gaze darted from one to the other “Von Mueller! He’s very famous. I can’t believe it. Surely you are both aware of his work?”
“No.” Paavo glanced at Angie. She shook her head. “What was his work?”
Livingstone eyed them both carefully. “Oh, a little of this and a tad of that. Chemistry, you know. Since you were talking about him, I had naturally assumed…” He let his voice trail off.
“You can tell us about him,” Angie said.
“Why bore young people with talk of old scientists?” Livingstone stood. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Amalfi.” He placed his hat on his head. “And you, Mr. Smith. I look forward to conversing with you much more in the future.”
As soon as Livingstone left, she turned to Paavo.
“So tell me,” she said, leaning forward, “what did you think of him?”
Paavo was already scanning the newspaper again, looking for an article to catch his attention. “What do you mean?” he asked.
She gazed at the paper, then at him. The urge to jump up and shake him was overwhelming. What was wrong with him? “I didn’t believe a word that man uttered! Did you?”
Paavo buried his nose deeper into the news. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because it was so phony, as you well know!” That settled it. Something was definitely wrong with her inspector. He was usually the one to point out such things to her, not the other way around. She could handle his changing jobs—in fact, this particular change she welcomed—but a personality change along with it was beyond the pale.
She lowered her voice and kept talking. “People don’t just get on board container ships at the last minute. And his interest in Von Mueller was most peculiar.”
Blue eyes caught hers a moment; then Paavo gave a slight shake of his head and turned back to his paper. He flipped to another page. “Strangers have to talk about something to each other. Why not the news?”
“It wasn’t that kind of chitchat,” Angie said. “Tell me the truth. Didn’t his questions—his whole manner—strike you as a little bit curious?”
His jaw worked a moment. “He seemed eccentric, I’ll go that far.”
“Aha! You did notice.” What was she doing? Why was she prodding him to question the people around them? She should be glad he wasn’t interested.
“It doesn’t mean a thing,” he added.
She gave up. She needed to change the subject, because this one was too frustrating. “By the way, what were you looking for in the bathroom cabinet?”
He put the paper down and gave her a strange look. “Now what are you talking about?” He had a long-suffering tone that she didn’t much care for.
“Last night I noticed the toiletries were jumbled. I assumed you were looking for something of mine. I wondered what it was, that’s all.”
“I didn’t touc
h anything of yours in the bathroom cabinet,” he said firmly.
“Well, somebody did. Are you sure?”
He just looked at her.
“Well, they were jumbled together. I wonder what it means?”
Picking up the newspaper once more, he snapped the page open then folded it back. “It probably means no more than that we hit a big wave and everything slid.” He lifted the paper high and continued reading.
She was ready to toss the Times overboard.
“I don’t know why you’re acting this way, Angie,” Paavo said with a measured lack of interest. “Enjoy your vacation.”
“Are you enjoying it?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Can’t you tell?”
10
Later that morning, as the freighter slowly headed southward along the coast of Baja California, Angie stretched out on a lounge chair on the sundeck in a red bikini. She ignored the fact that the crew, who normally almost never appeared in the passenger areas, seemed to suddenly find all kinds of reasons to walk by.
She had decided that she shouldn’t be pointing out oddities about this trip to Paavo. He was doing the right thing by ignoring them. That was what he’d do in his new persona: learn how not to be a cop. It wasn’t being dull—it was being an everyday kind of guy.
Oh, well. She situated herself so that her head and shoulders were shaded by the big umbrella that rose from a round patio table. The umbrella could be angled wherever needed.
She kicked off her sandals so that her feet, with their fuchsia-colored toenails, would tan without strap lines. Next, she picked up the book her sister Francesca had recommended to her, but she doubted she’d make it past chapter two. She didn’t need a book to tell her that she and Paavo were on totally different planets.
As she glanced over at Paavo, the big umbrella shading her creaked and bent at the center joint, allowing the sun to hit her full in the face. When she put her hand up to shade her eyes, she could see he was zipping through an old Ross Macdonald mystery he’d found in the passenger lounge. She had to admit his book looked interesting. She put hers down.
