Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  He ordered a soldier to untie their hands. He told the harbor pilot to proceed to the bridge and asked him to take the children with him. “Search the bridge and the captain’s quarters,” he said. “Find the ship’s log and its manifest. Give these children the means to clean themselves up and give them any food that you find.”

  As the soldier cut their ropes, the major tried to soothe them. Gently, he assured them that no harm would come to them. Those who wish it would soon be returned to their villages. Those without family would be fed and sent to school and would live with other children like themselves. He asked one of the girls, one whose lips had been split, to identify the man who had done this to her. She was too afraid to speak, but another girl wasn’t. The other girl stepped forward and pointed. She had gestured toward the captain and another man, a fat man, who wore the cap of a first mate. “It was that one and that one,” she said.

  “Only two?”

  “Only those, but they came every night.” As she spoke she wiped her mouth

  with her hand as if trying to cleanse herself of them.

  The captain was white, but not European. His accent seemed Algerian, Moroccan perhaps. The captain had managed to screw up his courage and was making demands of the major. He protested the boarding, citing maritime law. He was ordering the major to get off his ship at once. The major seized him by his hair and bent him over the railing. He looked up at the gunship still hovering above them and asked the pilot, through gestures, whether he could still see the package that the captain had jettisoned. The pilot swung his spotlight to a point off the stern. It lit the small container, still bobbing. The major, still holding the captain by the hair, reached down to his crotch and lifted him bodily. He threw him over the side.

  He waited for the captain to struggle to the surface. He called to him and said, “Now swim to that box. Don’t come back without it. If you hurry, you might beat the sharks.”

  Only seven of the crew remained on deck. These included the mate whose turn was soon coming. He had expected a crew of perhaps ten or twelve. He sent two of his men to search below decks and gather any who might be hiding.

  “Question them,” he said. “Ask them what this ship is carrying. It won’t all be listed on the manifest.”

  Next, the major approached the first mate. This was a black man, very short and very fat. More than fat, he was filthy and he stank. But he was not a poor man; he was wearing much gold. He wore rings and a watch, gold chains and a crucifix. The crucifix was three inches long. It was flanked on its chain by animal bones and charms that were thought to be magic. This was a man who liked to cover all bases in case the Christian teachings were mistaken. The man guessed what was coming. He eyes went wide. He attempted to bargain for his life. He said, “I know the cargo. I’m the only one who does.”

  A Nigerian, thought the major, on hearing this man’s accent. Probably Ibo. One more mark against him.

  “You’ve known some of it quite well,” the major answered.

  The mate said, “Those girls lie. Don’t listen to them. But I know which crates are marked falsely on the manifest. I know what is hidden. I will help you.”

  “We’ll manage,” said the major as drew his sidearm. He aimed it five inches below the mate’s belt. The mate moved to cover that spot with his hands while shouting for the major to wait. The roar of the pistol cut him off. The bullet’s impact lifted the man to his toes before he folded over and fell on his face. It had exited under the base of his spine, exploding the Nigerian’s anus. The Nigerian bucked and writhed on the deck, his smashed hands still trying press against the hole that had been drilled through his center of pleasure.

  The major heard gasps from the crew that remained. He said to them, “None of you will be shot as long as you give us no trouble.” Your captain is, of course, another matter. He said to his sergeant, within the mate’s hearing. “As for this one, let him lie in his blood for a while. Soon enough, he’ll get the bath that he needs.”

  He was not a brutal man, he reminded himself. But some things leave no room for mercy. The men he’d sent below came back to report. The only others, they said, were two firemen and the cook. They said they told the firemen to stay with their engines. If they do their jobs they would both be released when the ship has put in at Monrovia. They’d marched the cook to his galley and set him to work preparing hot soup for the children.

  “Well done,” said the major. “What cargo did you find?”

  “A Mercedes, lots of motorbikes, most not new; they must be stolen. Also some computers and cellular phones, all in crates with aid agency markings. And a great many crates we couldn’t take the time to open, also with similar markings.”

  “No idea of their contents?”

  “Some said food,” he answered. “Some said medical supplies. All of these are addressed to distribution facilities in ports where this freighter had already been.”

  The markings were probably genuine, thought the major. Tons of aid goods, all stolen. All intended for black market sale up the coast. This was, he realized, a disappointment to his soldiers. If those crates contained what their stencils indicated, his soldiers would get no share of their value. The Red Cross would surely reclaim them. But they’d share in the ship and they would each get a motorbike. They would get a share of whatever else they might find, with the single exception of drugs as agreed. The major felt sure that he would find drugs. They were probably bobbing in the ocean.

  The captain had managed to swim to the box that had preceded him over the side. Using it for flotation, he’d paddled round the stern to the port boarding ladder where the patrol boat still waited. The patrol boat’s crew snared the box with a hook as the captain pulled himself onto the platform. There, the captain stiffened. He was hearing distant screams. The screams were coming from Mobote’s men who were still treading water in the darkness. The sharks had wasted no time. An armed crewman prodded the captain with his weapon. The crewman forced him to carry the box as he staggered, exhausted, up the steps.

  The captain almost fell into a swoon when he saw the condition of his mate. The mate was still rolling and writhing on the deck on a great smear of blood that kept widening. This time, the armed crewman had to keep him from falling as he led him to toward the stern and Major Scar.

  The major said to him, “So you, too, like little girls.”

  The captain stammered, “I never…I did not…”

  The major’s eyes turned cold. “That’s a lie. Don’t tell another.”

  The captain’s chin quivered. “I…at least didn’t beat them.”

  “Oh, good. That will make all the difference.”

  “This is true,” whined the captain. “You can ask them. Please ask them. It was not me who beat those two girls.”

  You’re a dead man, thought the major, but he said, “You might live. You might live if you don’t lie again.”

  The captain went limp as if greatly relieved. “I won’t lie,” he said. “Ask me anything.”

  The major gestured toward the hatch that led to the hold. “What else are you carrying beyond what we’ve seen?”

  “I don’t know. This is true,” said the captain, his eyes wide. He pointed at the mate. “Only he knows.”

  “Why so?”

  “He’s not really a seaman. He is Savran Bobik’s man. His name is Moshood. The rest of us are seamen. We move cargo port to port. In between we must mind our own business.”

  The major asked, “Are there drugs in the hold?”

  “There are medicines. Many medicines. All kinds.”

  “I mean drugs of the kind that affect one’s behavior.”

  “Not in the hold. Only those with the weapons. I know of no others. This I swear.”

  The major asked, “Are there other weapons?”

  “I don’t think so. I think only that shipment.”

  The major sniffed. “You don’t know very much. But you did know enough to throw this overboard.” He reached to pick up the
container.

  The captain gestured toward the mate once again. “Bobik’s man said, ‘Hide it,’ but there was no time. I thought this must be trouble so I threw it.”

  The major studied the box he was holding. It had been tightly sealed with reinforced tape, but the tape underneath had already been cut. Someone had used fresh tape to reseal it. The box itself resembled an ice chest. On one side, it bore a corporate logo. The name on it sounded South African.

  He asked, “What is VaalChem?”

  “They make different medicines. That’s all I was told.”

  “Why would a medicine be thrown overboard?”

  “Because this was supposed to go to Mobote. When we left Luanda and got out to sea, Bobik’s man opened one of the crates. Not the crates with the weapons. A small one. He found drugs and special foods for Mobote to cook with and he found this container inside. I heard him say, ‘What is this? Why is this here?’ He pulled it out so he could get at the drugs. He helped himself to some of them. Three bags. Next, he took out his knife and he opened this container. When he looked inside he seemed very surprised. I asked him, ‘What have you found?’”

  “Well?” asked the Major. “What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the Captain. “All he said was, ‘Don’t touch this; don’t open it; don’t go near it.’ He put the drugs that he stole into that container and he took it down to his cabin. That is the last I saw of it until you attacked. That is when he told me to hide it.”

  So, thought the major, what have we here? The Nigerian was not only cheating Mobote, he was stealing from Savran Bobik as well. Whatever surprised him that he found in that container must be of considerable value. The major said, “Well, let’s both see what it is.” He reached for the clasp knife that he carried in his pocket. He slit the new tape and he pried off the lid. He flinched as fumes rose to his face.

  The fumes, however, were only dry ice. He could think of no narcotic that would need to be kept cold, but narcotics were the first things he saw. White powder wrapped in plastic, almost sure to be heroin; the quantity was looked to be half a kilo. The major picked it up to examine it closely, and then tossed it into the sea. There were two smaller packages of a crystalline substance. Methamphetamines, probably. They went over as well. He poured the dry ice onto the deck to get at the rest of the container.

  At its base he saw a jar that was imbedded in green foam. The foam had been molded to accommodate its shape in order to protect it from breakage. He saw that there were spaces for two rows of jars, but only that one space was used. The major reached in and removed the jar. It was small, about the size of a woman’s fist. It was made of very thick glass. Its top and its base had been further protected by dipping it into a plastic substance such as that which he’d seen on the handles of tools. The jar’s middle section, however, was clear except for a yellow paper band wrapped around it. A label, perhaps, but there was no writing on it. Perhaps the color by itself had a meaning.

  The jar was only about one-third filled. Looking past the yellow label he was able to see that the jar contained some sort of powder. More heroin, perhaps? No, not packaged this way. Besides this powder wasn’t white; it was pink. And the powder was much finer than any that he’d seen. More like talc, but even finer than that. So light, so fine that it almost seemed alive. The slightest movement of his hand would cause it to jump. It seemed to creep up the sides of the jar.

  He turned and walked toward Bobik’s man, the Nigerian. As he did so, he slit the rubber seal with his knife. Bobik’s man had curled into a fetal position, as much as his girth would allow. The helicopter’s prop wash had fanned his blood into a smear almost three meters wide. He saw the major coming. He begged the major, “Do not shoot me again. You are Christian. I am Christian. Do not shoot me.”

  But then he saw that the major wasn’t holding his pistol. He saw that the major was holding a jar and that the major was trying to open it. A new kind of fear washed over his face. He cried out, “No, no, no. What are you doing?”

  The major stood over him. “What is this?” he asked.

  The Nigerian gasped, “Do not open it. Don’t.”

  The major was startled by the vehemence of his plea. This man was swimming in blood; he had been emasculated, and yet suddenly those seemed to be the least of his problems.

  “What is this?” asked the major. “Why are you so afraid?”

  Bobik’s man didn’t answer. He bit onto his lip. He tried to back away from the jar. The major said again, “Tell me what it is.”

  “It is poison,” the man croaked. “Throw it over the side.”

  “What kind of poison?” asked the major impatiently. “Perhaps you’ll know better if you see it up close.”

  “No, no. Do not open it. Do not let it fly out.”

  The major understood that the powder must be dangerous. He no longer intended to open the jar. All he’d meant to do was to loosen the cap in order to loosen this man’s lips. But the cap came free sooner than he had expected and some of the powder did indeed seem to fly. It wasn’t much. No more than dust blown off a book. Were it not for the helicopter’s powerful searchlight, it would not have been visible at all.

  The little cloud of pink powder quickly dispersed, but it did so in a very odd way. Its particles seemed to dart away from each other as if searching for a means of escape. This was all the more odd because they seemed to resist both the breeze and the prop wash, both of which were behind him. But only for an instant. Then they chose a direction. It was as if they had reached an agreement.

  The Nigerian had clamped his ruined hands to his face and had tried to roll out of their path. What was left of them drifted back toward the stern where the captain and his crew were being held. Halfway there, it was no longer visible.

  The captain and his crew had been watching the mate. Unlike him, they did not seem greatly alarmed. The major heard a crewman ask the captain what was happening. The captain only shrugged. He truly didn’t seem to know.

  The Nigerian’s hands were still pressed against his face. He had reached the railing and was trying to stand. He seemed intent on throwing himself over the railing, but the strength of his legs had deserted him. His whole body wilted. He collapsed onto the deck. His eyes held an expression of utter despair. With one bloody hand, he made the sign of the cross before joining both hands at the tip of his chin. He began to recite a Hail Mary.

  “The Holy Mother can wait,” said the major. “Talk to me.”

  The Nigerian ignored him. He kept praying.

  “First me,” said the major. “Then I’ll let you make your peace.”

  The Nigerian croaked, “Go make your own peace. You’re as dead as the rest of us now.”

  THIRTEEN

  Elizabeth, with some sadness, had said her farewells and, with Aisha, drove away from the Marina. She hadn’t wanted to be found, but she was glad that she’d gone there. She’d never really seen herself as one of them before. She was, in her own mind, just a guest passing through during her time in Chamonix. But they’d seemed to have embraced her as one of their own. She couldn’t help but feel warmed by the thought of it.

  From what Elizabeth had heard about Westport, their good will wasn’t limited to their own tight-knit circle. It applied to their neighbors and friends as well although she doubted that many were aware of that fact. But anyone who tried to hurt a neighbor or friend was likely to end up in the trunk of a car. Not dead, necessarily. Given time to reflect. Given time to consider moving elsewhere.

  Her route back to Sea Pines took them past Jump & Phil’s, the bar where all this had started. She took her foot off the gas as she coasted by its entrance. The bar was also where it ended, according to Molly. Harry Whistler was still in there behind all that plywood, as was his son, Adam, and the two Beasley twins.

  Correction, thought Elizabeth. Only one of the twins. The other would be, as John Waldo had explained, somewhere in the shadows outside. She resisted the temptation to slow dow
n a bit more and see if she was able to spot him. She knew that she wouldn’t. He’d been doing this too long. He wouldn’t even be where she’d expect him to be. Much more likely, the twin would spot her.

  Aisha asked her, “Aren’t you going to stop in?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Let’s just get home.”

  Aisha asked, “Don’t you think you should at least say hello? Mr. Whistler is going to know that you’re here as soon as he talks to Molly. She’s probably called him already.”

  “I’m sure that she has,” said Elizabeth.

  “Well…wouldn’t it be polite to…”

  Elizabeth stopped her. “You’re saying that you’d like to meet more of them, right?”

  “Well, sure. But if you’d rather, I can wait in the car.”

  Elizabeth curled her lip. “I wish you’d waited in your bed. I’m not going in because the owners are in there and, apparently the bartender, Leslie, as well. I don’t need them to know that I know Harry Whistler. My quiet life here would be over.”

  Aisha nodded. “I guess I see what you mean.”

  “Harry knows that. Believe me, he won’t be offended.” They were almost at the gate. “Let’s just get home.”

  Aisha said, “Well, at least you can tell me what he’s like.”

  “Who, Harry?”

  “Uh-huh. And Paul Bannerman, too.”

  “I…didn’t really know them that well,” said Elizabeth. “Martin knew them much longer than I did.”

  “But you spent some time with them. You must have formed an impression. And Martin must have told you what they were like.”

  “He did, and Harry was about what I expected. I suppose it was Paul who surprised me the most. I’m not sure I’ve ever met the real Paul Bannerman.”

  Aisha looked up. “I don’t get you.”

  “Harry is Harry. There’s a range, but it’s all Harry. With Bannerman, it’s more like he’s two different people. If I'd met him somewhere else and knew nothing about him, I’d have thought, what a gentleman; what a nice looking man. Attentive, a good listener, very kind.”