by Michael Howe
“Reminds me of some parts of San Juan I’d rather forget. Maybe they’ve been cleaned up by now. Okay, back to the hotel. Let’s hope we’ve learned enough.”
“Something is always better than nothing.”
Roberto Palmeira, chief operating officer of the Tecmar shipyard, sat at the head of the table in the yard’s primary conference room. Behind him, a large window looked out over Graving Dock One and beyond, across the Baia de Guanabara to the city of Niterói. Running under the window was a long, oak table, the center of which was dominated by a gorgeous, but flashy, potted plant with huge orange-and-black flowers. Around the table were Ted and Ray, along with the yard’s security and fire chiefs.
“I’m still at a little bit of a loss about your visit, gentlemen,” said Palmeira after Salvador had made the introductions and then discreetly left. “The fire that interests you was far from large and we made no claim for it. And, quite honestly, shipyards tend to have fires from time to time and our record is, I believe, quite good. Still, I can understand that our underwriters might wish to send safety engineers to consult with us. But you are not safety engineers, are you?”
“No, sir, we are not,” replied Ray. “Anglo-Swiss Re is more than satisfied with the technical details of your safety systems. We’re more interested in the human element. Would you mind reviewing what is known about the incident?”
“As we stated in the report, the fire was caused by a careless welder working too close to combustible materials. Both the welder and his supervisor were discharged.”
“According to your report, drugs were involved . . .”
“Yes, they were. Shipyards are very dangerous places—I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that—so we’ve had a random drug testing program for many years. Unfortunately, we also have six thousand workers and, shamefully, drugs are very common in Rio—as they are in a number of North American cities. We work closely with the federal police. We do what we can but . . .”
“We understand the problem is very difficult to control . . . Now, our preliminary investigations indicate that two of your shipfitters—a Carlos Coccoli and an Umberto Rojas—appear to have disappeared without formally quitting a week or so after the fire. And the girlfriend of Coccoli was also reported as missing.”
An expression of serious confusion spread across Palmeira’s face. “Gentlemen, we have thousands of workers and Brazil is a very big nation. People come and go all the time. Some leave—for the Amazonian gold fields, for New York, for God knows where—without even collecting the wages we owe them. When opportunity presents itself, people seem quick to chase it. Especially with Christmas approaching. Why are these two men of such interest to you?”
“We’ve received indications that they may be—or have been—important members of the drug regime in your yard.”
“Have the federal police been informed?”
“Not yet. As soon as we have something solid, we will ask you to inform them.”
Palmeira turned to the security chief. “Is anything known about this Rojas and Coccoli?”
“I’ll check, sir,” replied the security chief, an expression of intense irritation on his face. He then pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
“He should have that information for you in no time,” remarked the yard’s COO as they waited. “We have a very complete computerized personnel system—and an equally up-to-date security and access program.”
“The last record we have is their leaving through the south gate at 10:02 on the night of November 27,” reported the security chief. His relief that he had something solid to report was all too obvious. “Coccoli was born in Rio, although he listed no relatives, just his girlfriend,” he continued, listening to his phone and pausing from time to time. He came to us when he was eighteen. He was started on menial work and did so well that we put him in our shipfitters training program. Again he did well, and has been well respected by his supervisors. As for Rojas, he is originally from Para State to the north. He did welding for a gold mining company there, so we put him to the same task. No family listed, but that is not uncommon.”
“Is that a normal time to leave? The end of a shift?”
“No,” replied Palmeira, his perplexity still evident. “What project were they working on?”
Again, the security chief consulted his cell phone. “They had just completed the Aurora Austalis overhaul.”
Ted and Ray both struggled not to look at the other.
“Ah!” said Palmeira, clearly relieved. “She is an older ship and that overhaul was a very complex and challenging project. It’s very likely they would hang around the yard for a while, have a beer with some of their coworkers and celebrate the completion of the project.”
The executive paused a moment, a frown on his face, then continued: “We allow no alcohol in the yard except for one canteen where the workers can have a beer or two after they have finished their shifts.”
“Can you give us a list of the other shipfitters with whom they worked and where we can find them?”
“It might be best to leave this to the federal police. Drugs is a very violent business.”
“We’re primarily interested in determining if there’s any connection between these two and the fire—and the possibility of further fires. Sabotage, perhaps.”
“Of course!” Palmeira smiled, not believing a word of it.
Five minutes later—proving that the Tecmar shipyard really was totally up-to-date—the computer printer resting on a small table along one wall burst into life. Roberto Palmeira picked up the printout and scanned it. “Here are ten men who worked with Coccoli and Rojas on Aurora. All are in the yard now, so you can go talk to them. I will be pleased to provide you with a vehicle that you can drive yourselves, but I urge you to let Salvador drive for you. Some of these job sites are difficult to find, and Salvador will in no way interfere with your inquiries. He will stay in the vehicle if you wish.”
“If we’re going to find ten men in one afternoon, we’re going to need Salvador’s help,” said Ted, speaking for the first time.
With Salvador driving, Ray and Ted crisscrossed the Tecmar shipyard—visiting graving docks that baked in the tropical afternoon sun; fabrication and assembly shops filled with the screeching, pounding roar of steel being forced into useful shapes and forms and the ever-present smells of cut metal and petroleum in all its many forms and flavors—tracking down and interviewing the men on the list of shipfitters who had worked with Coccoli and Rojas. All seemed to agree that Carlos Coccoli was exceptionally brash and ambitious, although that was not so strange for a young man. Umberto Rojas had struck most as somewhat withdrawn. Everybody agreed they were good workers. Nobody knew anything about their personal lives, although one or two—after taking great care to describe themselves as solid family men who had only been passing by on the way to the bus—thought they’d seen the two patronizing some of the seedier bars and other establishments that lined the grimy streets surrounding the yard.
“Those guys weren’t willing to admit anything,” said Ted as he walked through the door into the hotel room, stretched out on the bed’s worn spread and soaked up the air-conditioning, stale air and all. “They obviously knew more but didn’t want to admit it.”
“Yeah, this is one of those places where it’s dangerous to know or say too much. But I think we found what the boss sent us here for this morning.”
“You mean that the two guys worked on Aurora Australis ?”
“Right.”
“But nothing’s happened to the ship. Nothing’s been found. There’s no intelligence . . .”
“I know, but the boss seems to think there might be something, and I must admit that their having worked on the cruise ship just adds another dot to the picture.”
“It’s still pretty thin. Don’t you think we’re getting a little carried away with the ‘connecting the dots’ business?”
“What about the yard itself?” asked Ray, knowing that Ted had been a
third-class shipfitter before transferring to the SEALs.
“The yard impressed me. Cleaner, better organized than the two we had overhauls in before I joined the ‘chosen. ’ ”
“You didn’t notice anything odd, out of place? Something the boss might want to know about?”
“No. That’s one squared-away yard—as yards go.”
“I’m going to check in with the boss,” said Ray as he rigged a scrambler onto his cell phone.
Ted lay there, listening to Ray explain the situation to Mike Chambers. And he listened to the silence when Ray was listening to their boss. “Aye, aye, sir,” said the marine finally as he flipped the phone closed. “We’re in luck, Ted. We’re going partying tonight and SECDEF’s picking up the tab.”
“You mean those dumps opposite the shipyard?”
“How did you guess? It seems the Agency has a stringer in the area who thinks she may know them. A B-girl at a place called the ‘Bar Tiffany.’ We’re going to listen and try not to attract too much attention to ourselves. Remember, no incidents. If this girl knows something, fine. If not, that’s fine too.”
“The ‘Bar Tiffany’?”
“Yes, the girl’s named Dani.”
“What’s the address?” asked Ted, opening Alex’s map as he did.
Ray gave it to him.
“Hell, we must have passed this place at least twice today but I don’t remember it. I don’t remember seeing anyplace I really wanted to go into.”
“All right, damn it, if we have to go we have to go. Let’s hit it!” he concluded, sitting up.
“Not so fast. Nightlife around here doesn’t start until late. This Dani’s expecting us between midnight and one, so get a little shut-eye because you’re going to need it.”
“Why?”
“Because unless we find something truly astounding, the boss plans to redeploy us tomorrow.”
“To where?”
“He didn’t say.”
Mamoud al Hussein picked up the quietly ringing phone. “Yes, Roberto,” he said, looking at the caller ID.
“I’m very sorry to bother you now, Mamoud, when you’re trying to rest up from your trip, but there’s something very strange about these insurance inspectors who met with me today.”
“Yes?”
“They said they are here to look into the ‘personnel situation’ in the yard. Specifically the drug situation. And that makes sense. And they are very interested in two particular shipfitters who left our employ several weeks ago. They suggested these two men were involved with drugs, and of course they may well have been, but why are they interested in these two? I’m very sorry, but I have a gut feeling that they are interested in something else. Unfortunately, I don’t know what it is. I know this isn’t much, but I thought you should know.”
“Have you checked again with the insurance company?”
“Yes. They say they are their people.”
“Very well, Roberto. Thank you. Would you arrange for a meeting with them tomorrow? Perhaps I can figure out what they are up to.”
“Consider it done.”
Mamoud hung up and looked out the window at the late afternoon sun just disappearing behind the mountains to the west. Should he act or would any action be an overreaction? He had no idea who these two really were. They might well be insurance people interested in the narcotics problems in the yard. That made perfect sense. They might be practically anybody else.
In theory, the mechanism had been set in motion along its destined course and there was nothing more for him to do. Indeed, he reminded himself, by interfering he might very well destroy his own well-thought-out construct. On the other hand, midcourse corrections were common in even the greatest of engineering endeavors. Think of NASA.
Action was called for, he decided. Especially since it entailed very little risk to either him personally or to the operation. He took a cell phone out of his desk drawer. It belonged to a young girl who never existed.
“There were two men at the yard today who are supposed to be insurance inspectors . . . Yes, you know of them? I want you to arrange for them to die tonight, victims of the city’s ceaseless, random violence . . . Yes, I think it is reasonable to assume they will go out. They are young men. Young men who seem very curious about Tecmar and a great many other things. Watch their hotel. At the very least they will go out for dinner.”
6
The South Atlantic
The sun rose to find Aurora Australis at latitude 42 degrees, 33 minutes south, roughly two hundred miles east of Argentina. The ship was now within the fabled Roaring Forties, a geographic band known for its boisterous winds. By dawn the sea had made up into a serious chop and the temperature had dropped significantly, but the sky remained almost cloudless. It was, in fact, the last fine day Aurora, her passengers or crew would see for quite some time.
“Good morning, Congressman,” said Wendell Gardner as he stepped on the treadmill beside that being used by Peter Evans. Wendell was one of the team leaders who would supervise the expeditions ashore.
“Morning, Wendell,” replied Evans, looking out the side of his eye at the shaggy young man about whom he had such mixed feelings. On the one hand, the fellow—who had made it a point to approach him repeatedly—was an utter fanatic. His theories and proposals were far beyond anything Evans could allow himself to be seen embracing, even in the existing, overheated media environment. Several of his important backers would never stand for it. On the other hand, he couldn’t just tell him to buzz off. The media would interpret that as an outright rejection of all that is good and pure on Earth. And they were everywhere!
But he might still be of use, thought the congressman as he twisted the speed control up one notch. Just about everybody can be useful in some way.
“The approach I suggested to you last night, sir, that you propose a law forcing foreign governments to comply with our environmental laws . . . What do you think of it?”
“A lot’s already being done in that direction. We prohibit the import of certain products into the United States, for example, that haven’t been manufactured in accord with our laws.”
“Yes, but those rogue countries trade with each other! We have to find some way of controlling their behavior before it’s too late.”
“I promise you,” replied Evans as he looked ahead and puffed slightly, “that I’ll look further into it. I agree we have to take control. We need some new legislation with real teeth in it.
“Wendell,” continued Evans quietly, hoping that none of the other toilers in the ship’s fitness center could hear him, “just how dangerous is the process of our transferring ashore by those rubber boats?”
“It isn’t, sir. If the weather’s too rough, we don’t go ashore. Otherwise, we’ve got it all worked out.”
“It’s not possible to fall over, or be swept over the side of the boat?” Evans said as his feet continued to glide over the simulated track.
“No, sir. We’re prepared to prevent that.”
“And ashore . . . what are the dangers there? Have you ever had anybody slip into the water and drown? Are there crevasses that split open without warning? What about storms that suddenly hit?”
“This isn’t our first expedition, Congressman. We’ve got it all worked out. Everybody’s closely supervised. You will be safer ashore than when you are aboard this ship.”
“I’m sorry for being so insistent,” continued Evans, “but I’m a little worried about my wife. And I tell you this in full confidence. She’s always been very solid on the environment—all you have to do is look at our contributions to see that—and up until recently she’s always loved the outdoors, but something has happened to her the past six months. She seems to go through bouts of depression and almost suicidal clumsiness—or carelessness. The doctors don’t really seem to know what’s brought this all on, but it’s very worrisome to me. I’m hoping this trip will pull her out of it, but at the same time I worry that she might injure herself, either thr
ough carelessness or possibly even intentionally.”
“Everything will be fine, Congressman. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
I damn well hope so, thought Evans. I want as much media coverage as I can get, but I don’t want any of Penny flapping and floundering in icy water, screeching and screaming.
Without ever having stopped jogging, Evans turned back to his machine and set the pace a little higher for himself. He then looked around the fitness facility, at the row upon row of treadmills and weight machines of various sorts, the majority in use. There was a lot of sweat being spilled, he thought. For many of Aurora’s passengers, personal fitness was just as much of a moral issue as was environmental concern.
Despite the brochures, he’d assumed, until he got aboard the ship, that Aurora would be a little on the Spartan side. He’d been wrong. The food, the bars, the exercise facilities . . . His eyes settled on a young woman bench-pressing a few pounds. Black hair, piercing blue eyes, black tights and a slender body that hinted at the faintest touch of substance in all the right places. She reminded him of Jackie, his always-willing assistant. He wished Jackie were there and Penny . . . and Penny someplace else. If Jackie were there with him, the whole thing would be a lot more fun. As it was, it was shaping up to be pure work.
Chrissie Clark, dressed in a sweater and jeans, stood with her hands on the rail, feeling the wind tear through the air. She watched with relaxed pleasure as the foamy whitecaps chased one another over the blue sea and the mid-morning sun shone down on her. It felt good to be alone for a change. There was no media in sight, and her current boyfriend, Brad, was busy drinking chocolate martinis and playing poker with two very sketchy couples—neither of whom seemed to have any interest in the environment. She looked behind her, noticed an empty deck chair and walked over to it. “Do you mind if I plop myself down here?” she asked the elderly woman in the next chair.
“Of course not, dear. Do soak up a little sun before it’s too late.”
