by Joanne Pence
The Hydra shook her head. “You’re completely wrong—as always. I caused Lichty to leave the ship. He was getting too nosy; I’m sure he overheard one of our conversations. He might not ever have put all the pieces together, but I didn’t want to take the chance. So, a couple of notes made it clear he’d have to get off the ship or be killed. It was easy—you know how nervous he was to begin with. Finally, a butcher knife stuck into one of his clean aprons drove him over the edge. Almost literally.”
“You’re sure there wasn’t time for Ingerson to have passed it to him before he left?”
“From the time Ingerson stepped on the ship that day to the time Lichty tried to jump off, one or the other was in my view constantly. They didn’t have time to meet. Lichty didn’t have the nerve to gel involved that way, no matter what.”
Jones nodded. “You’re right about him.”
“Of course I am.” The Hydra leaned closer. “Now, here’s the plan. I want you to do something to the air-conditioning—put a hole in it, remove a part, I don’t care. But do something that will stop it from working and will take time to fix. That’ll buy us a day or two. Also, it’ll mean that the passengers will get off the ship. We’ll be able to go through all the cabins once again with a fine-tooth comb. Since Amalfi and Smith will take their things with them to some hotel room, we’ll find out which one and take all their belongings. If worse comes to worst, we’ll kill them.”
“Kill Angie? She hasn’t done anything.”
“Michael, you are too easily charmed by women for this business. But maybe they’ll be lucky. Maybe we’ll find the formula without having to kill them.”
“One other question, though,” Jones said. “If we break the air-conditioning so the ship can’t sail, what if Amalfi and Smith don’t want to wait for the repairs and decide to fly to Acapulco right away?”
She shrugged. “If they’re dead, they can’t go anywhere.”
22
“The ship is not here yet!” Colonel Hector Ortega exclaimed, climbing out of his limousine almost before it stopped. Instead of the freighter he’d hoped to see out in the bay, only seagulls greeted him. A vendor rolled his noisy churro cart nearby. The colonel whirled about and glared as he passed.
Elsewhere, Acapulco harbor was abuzz with people, boats, cars, and cargo, but the area where the freighters came in, where containers were loaded and unloaded, was quiet as death.
“Damn! I thought you fixed it so it would not stop at Cabo San Lucas.” Despite the harsh, tropical sun, Ortega took off his sunglasses, hoping to spot the approaching ship on the horizon. But the sea was empty of anything larger than fishing boats.
“I started to, but someone had beaten me to it, my colonel. It will get here soon,” Eduardo said. “The harbormaster is expecting it. An hour or two, even a day or more, does not mean anything in a freighter’s schedule.”
“I am sick of waiting,” Ortega roared. “If someone beat you, it must be her, the Hydra. Why would she want the ship to arrive here early, before I expect it? Does she plan a surprise? I do not like such surprises. Perhaps I need to plan a little surprise for her!”
“Let us go to the restaurant across the street. We will have something cold to drink, a little something to eat. It will make the time go faster for you.”
“Yes, you are right, as always, Eduardo.” The colonel and Eduardo got back into the limousine and the chauffeur drove them the few feet across the boulevard to a restaurant.
George Gresham took off his straw hat and laid it on top of the churro cart, then ran into a telephone booth outside the harbormaster’s office and quickly dialed a number. “He’s at the harbor,” he said without even identifying himself. “He’s looking for the freighter. It’s due anytime now.” He didn’t mention hearing the name Hydra. He’d keep that little bit of explosive news under his hat for now. He didn’t want to sound as if he was going overboard on this.
He listened. “He’s gone into a fancy restaurant, but there’s a cantina, Fernando’s, with outside tables. I think we should all meet there. We can wait and watch. We know how to do that, don’t we?” He laughed so hard his fake mustache fell off.
“Okay,” he said after a while. “I’ll be waiting.”
23
“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Johansen,” Nellie Nebler called. “My cabin is growing awfully warm.”
“There is a problem with the air-conditioning,” the first mate replied.
“Problem, indeed!” Livingstone snorted. “My dear sir, it isn’t working at all.” Dressed as always in a white suit, he rapidly fanned his face with his white Panama hat. “When will it be fixed?”
Catching part of the conversation, Angie and Paavo walked out to the main deck to hear the first mate’s explanation of the sudden heat in the cabin.
“A part is broken,” Johansen admitted. “The engineer needs to replace it. If no replacement is available in Mazatlán—and we doubt any will be—one will be air-freighted to us in a day or two.”
“Gracious,” Nellie cried.
“Two days? In this heat?” Livingstone was shouting now. “That’s intolerable.”
“There’s much about freighter travel that is not for the faint of heart,” Johansen said. “When I began, there was no such thing as air-conditioning. The sea is a natural air conditioner.”
“But not when the freighter is sitting docked in a tropical port!” Livingstone bellowed.
“If you are uncomfortable, you can always get a hotel in town for a couple of nights. You must not expect us to reimburse you, though.” Johansen’s jaw was set, his voice never rising above a monotone. “We are making your accommodations available to you, as always. If you choose not to use them, that is between you and your pocketbook. It isn’t this shipping line’s concern.”
“But you’ve made the air-conditioning fail!” Nellie cried.
“We have not, Mrs. Nebler,” Johansen began patiently. “Mechanical parts fail now and then. Before you signed up for this cruise, you were warned that changes from planned itineraries often occur in freighter travel. This is one such change.”
“Let’s go,” Angie said to Paavo, turning away from the confrontation. “I’ve heard enough. Let’s just pack our bags and fly, or rent a car, or even take a bus, to Acapulco. I want off.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll join you,” Livingstone said, hurrying after them.
Angie couldn’t believe he intended to go with them.
“We’re going to Acapulco,” Angie explained.
“Transportation will take time to organize,” Livingstone said. “In the meantime, I know a very nice hotel here in Mazatlán. It’s in the old part of the city—lots of charm, away from the modern tourist sector. That’s where I’m staying. You should take a room there, too, and see how things work out on board. Johansen said the problem might be fixed sometime tomorrow. No need to give up your cruise so hastily.”
“There’s nothing hasty—” Angie began.
“Let’s talk to the man,” Paavo said, his gaze never leaving Livingstone’s.
“Excellent,” Livingstone replied. The three of them walked into the lounge, where it was a little cooler, at least, than the humid outside air.
Livingstone led them to a secluded table in a far corner of the room. They sat. “Now,” Paavo said, leaning close to Livingstone, “what’s this about?”
Angie looked with surprise from one man to the other. The way they spoke and regarded each other had changed perceptibly. She didn’t know why.
Livingstone sat straighter in his chair, his jaw firmer. Gone was the lackadaisical art collector. “What I’m going to tell you must never be repeated.” Even his voice took on a harder edge. His eyes quickly scanned the surroundings before he continued. “I trust you, Inspector Smith, because you are, I have learned, an officer of the law of some distinction and repute, and I trust your lady because…well, because she is your lady.”
Paavo’s calm expression showed he’d expected that Livingston
e wasn’t what he seemed on the surface. But Angie hadn’t imagined anything like that at all,
Livingstone took a deep breath. “I fear that if you leave Mazatlán, your lives may be in danger.”
What?” Angie exclaimed.
“I work for Interpol. We’ve suspected for some time that this ship has been in some way connected with people who transfer…hmm, let’s call it information…from one person or group in one country to those in another.”
Paavo glanced at Angie. “Just where did your cousin learn about this freighter?”
“I don’t know,” she said, swallowing hard.
“In any event,” Livingstone continued. “Our friends in the FBI recently contacted us and told us they feared that a professor who had been working on a special U.S. government project had decided to sell his discovery to an international consortium. The FBI was watching him, but somehow the professor was murdered, and his formula and all the files he had on how to develop it were deleted. They had no idea how the deed was done.”
“That was Professor Von Mueller?” Paavo asked.
“Precisely. This ship was in the Bay Area when the formula was stolen. Since we’d been interested in everything happening on the ship, when Sven Ingerson was taken off, his photo was obtained by Interpol. On a hunch, we showed it to the FBI. It turns out that the FBI agent who had been watching the professor recognized Sven as a street musician the professor had given some money to in Berkeley. Apparently, the professor occasionally gave these street people money, so the FBI hadn’t thought much of it.”
“Oh, my God,” Angie murmured. Not that she understood much about the FBI or Interpol. But she did understand that her quiet, crime-free vacation had evaporated.
“You’re saying,” Paavo said, his elbows on the table, all his attention on Livingstone, “that the professor may have given Ingerson the missing formula? But then Ingerson got sick. Legitimately sick, do you think? Or does it seem someone wanted to get rid of him?”
Angie’s head swiveled to Paavo. He was following this…and seemed interested. Whatever happened to civilian life?
“Apparently it’s legitimate,” Livingstone replied. “Botulism. We haven’t heard of anyone playing around with botulism as a poison. But I guess anything is possible.”
Angie shuddered. Botulism was a cook’s worst nightmare, though easy to guard against with proper care.
“Once we learned about Ingerson,” Livingstone went on, “we were pretty sure the formula would be found on this ship. A few strings were pulled to get me on board to find out all I could. I’m glad I did.”
“What’s the formula for?” Paavo asked.
“Sorry. Classified. But believe me, it’s big. It can change the course of world history.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Angie said. “What could possibly do that?”
“I can’t tell you,” Livingstone said.
“Let’s back up,” Paavo said. “Whatever the formula is, if Ingerson had it and he’s now off the ship, what’s the problem and how are we involved?”
“Ingerson was just a courier,” Livingstone explained. “The brains behind all of this is a woman. We don’t know her real name. We don’t even have a picture of her. But everyone who has ever worked with her calls her the Hydra.”
“Hydra? From mythology?” Paavo asked.
“A many-headed beast,” Angie said, glad to contribute something.
Livingstone continued. “Instead of many heads, our Hydra has many disguises. We aren’t certain that she’s on the Valhalla—but she might be. In any event, whoever is on the ship and involved in this situation seems to think the formula is in your possession. Again, I don’t know why. But that has to be the reason why your room and your belongings have been searched.”
“But once they were searched and nothing found, this…Hydra…should know we don’t have the formula. She should forget about us,” Angie said hopefully.
“Or,” Livingstone countered, “she thinks she hasn’t done a thorough enough search. The timing of the sudden breakdown of the air conditioner is suspicious.”
“Agreed,” Paavo said. “That and the fact that there didn’t seem to be any dockworkers’ strike in Cabo San Lucas.”
“I called to check on that strike,” Livingstone said. “As you suspected, it was bogus. It made me think that someone didn’t want any of us—and especially not you—to get off in Cabo. Looking at the alternative, it’s also possible that someone wants you, or all of us, to stay in Mazatlán for a while.”
“This sounds like something James Bond should be involved in,” Angie said, her head swimming. “You’re just speculating. Both of you.”
“That’s true,” Livingstone admitted. “But your belongings have been searched, and so far your persons have not been in danger. I believe the safest thing for you to do is to allow these people to get their hands on your luggage at will. As I mentioned, I can recommend a small hotel. The owner is discreet—I’ve already talked to him. He’s holding two rooms for us that are across the hall from each other. You can spend tonight there comfortably. By the time the ship is tied down and you go through customs, it’ll be fairly late, and I can’t imagine anything would happen. But tomorrow, be sure you leave the room early and don’t return until nightfall. Sightsee or whatever else you want to do—as long as you stay away from that room. If someone comes to inspect your luggage, I’ll be there to catch them. It’s really extraordinarily simple.”
“But something might go wrong,” Paavo said. “I’m not putting Angie in danger.”
“What could happen?” Livingstone sounded completely confident. “Of course there are risks. Objectively, the worst thing would be if no one shows up to inspect your bags. In that case, I sail off on the Valhalla when it leaves Mazatlán, and you can fly to Acapulco and continue your vacation. It’s only for one day—that’s all I’m asking.”
“Angie’s a civilian,” Paavo said. “I can’t let her get involved.”
Livingstone folded his hands. “Interpol has been after the Hydra for ten years. She’s been a constant thorn in our side. Nothing major, just lots of little, niggling annoyances. Usually, the people she’s killed—”
“Killed?” Angie cried. “That’s a niggling annoyance?”
“Those people were the sort where, to be frank, we didn’t know whether to punish or commend her for their deaths. But this time is different. The victim was a professor, a chemist. A bit too avaricious, perhaps, but that’s not a capital offense. Killing him was. All I’m asking is one night’s lodging—two at most—to help Interpol and your government. After all, it is the government’s formula. How can you say no?”
“It doesn’t sound that dangerous,” Angie said to Paavo.
“You’re both wrong. It’s not going to be that easy,” Paavo said. “You’ve already said this Hydra is dangerous and has eluded you for years. You can’t believe she’d be so stupid as to walk into a trap now.”
“She has no reason to suspect anything. You’re seeing ghosts where there are none,” Livingstone insisted.
The look that filled Paavo’s eyes for the slightest moment told her Livingstone was right—ghosts were bothering Paavo, were making him even more cautious and worried than usual. “You need a backup.” Paavo said to the other man. “You’re putting yourself in too much danger.”
“A backup? For this? I had no idea you Yanks had grown so tender. I can do a job like this with my eyes closed—and believe me, they’ll be open. It’s child’s play.”
“No,” Paavo insisted. “You’ve got to—”
“Stop. I’m an Interpol agent. I know this territory; I know these people,” Livingstone said. “What you need to think very hard about is that, if the air-conditioning breakdown was rigged, it could only mean that the Hydra doesn’t want you, us, or the ship to leave Mazatlán. If you try to leave, she might decide to stop you. That, my friends, is when this little affair could become very dangerous indeed.”
“Paavo?” Ang
ie said, unable to hide the worry in her voice.
He looked from her to Livingstone, his eyes grim and determined. “Where’s the hotel?”
24
“You’re really going to leave the ship, dearie?” Nellie asked.
“Yes,” Angie answered loud enough even for Harold Cockburn to hear her with his hearing aid turned down. “We’re going to the Hotel del Sud. We’ll be back when the ship’s repaired, I guess.”
“Be careful out there,” Nellie cried. “We’re staying on board ourselves.”
“I thought you wanted to leave,” Angie said.
“We changed our minds. Anyway, the cabin’s paid for, even if it is a tad warm.”
A tad? “Okay. We’ll see you in a day or so,” Angie said as Paavo and Julio appeared on deck with their bags. “Bye.”
“So long, dearie,” Nellie said.
When they reached the bottom of the gangway, Julio steered them toward customs and the harbormaster’s office, where they had to show their papers before being allowed into the country. Paavo gave Julio a tip and Julio gave them his best wishes, glancing longingly toward Angie before he hurried away.
“Mazatlán might not be so bad after all,” Paavo muttered, watching the retreating steward.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” Angie said.
“Nothing,” he replied. As they lined up to show their papers, he turned to her and spoke in a normal tone. “Back on the ship, what was all the shouting about with Nellie?”
“Just wanted to be sure everyone knew where we were staying—in case what Livingstone said was true,” she explained.
Paavo had to suppress a grin. As always with Angie, when she got involved with something, she went at it full tilt.
The constant whirring of the outdoor fans at Fernando’s, a small, inexpensive cantina across from the Mazatlán harbor, suggested that they were spinning at full speed, even if all it meant was that they were merely pushing the hot, humid air around a bit. To the patrons at the cluster of sidewalk tables, some breeze was better than none at all.
