Текст книги "The Wheel of Darkness"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

All extraordinary. But which one—if any—was the Agozyen, the terrible and forbidden object that would cleanse the earth of its human infestation?

His eye settled on the extraordinary thangka paintings that ranged about the walls: paintings of Tibetan deities and demons, bordered by rich silk brocade, used as objects of meditation. The first was an exquisite image of the Avalokiteshvara bodhisattva, the Buddha of Compassion; next, a fierce depiction of the Kalazyga demon, with fangs, three eyes, and a headdress of skulls, dancing wildly in the midst of a raging fire. He examined the thangkas at close range with his loupe, then plucked a thread of silk off the edge of each in turn and examined them as well.

Next he moved to the largest of the mandalas, hanging over the gas fireplace. It was mind-boggling: an intricate, metaphysical representation of the cosmos that was, at the same time, a magical depiction of the interior state of the enlightened Buddha, as well as being the schematic of a temple or palace. The mandalas were meant to be objects of contemplation, aids to meditation, their proportions magically balanced to purify and calm the mind. To stare at a mandala was to experience, if only briefly, the nothingness that is at the heart of enlightenment.

This was an exceptionally fine mandala; Pendergast gazed at it, his eye almost magnetically drawn to the object’s center, feeling the familiar peace and freedom from attachment emanating from it.

Was this the Agozyen? No—there was no menace, no danger here.

He glanced at his watch. Blackburn would be back in twelve minutes. There was no more time to examine individual objects. Instead, he returned to the center of the room and stood there, thinking.

The Agozyen was in the room: he was certain of that. But he was also certain that further searching was a waste of precious time. A Buddhist phrase came to his mind: When you cease searching, then you will find.

He seated himself on Blackburn’s overstuffed couch, closed his eyes, and—slowly, calmly—emptied his mind. When his mind was at rest, when he ceased caring whether he found the Agozyen or not, he opened his eyes and once again looked around the room, keeping his mind a blank, his intellect quiescent.

As he did so, his gaze gravitated toward an exquisite painting by Georges Braque hanging unobtrusively in the corner. He vaguely remembered the painting, an early masterpiece by the French cubist that had recently been auctioned at Christie’s in London—purchased, he recalled, by an unknown buyer.

From his position on the sofa, he examined the painting with relaxed pleasure.

Seven minutes.

45

LESEUR INTERCEPTED STAFF CAPTAIN MASON AS SHE WAS entering through the outer bridge security hatchway. She paused when she saw his face.

“Captain Mason . . . ,” he began, then faltered.

She looked at him, her face betraying nothing. She still appeared cool, collected, hair tucked under the captain’s hat with not a single strand out of place. Only her eyes bespoke a deep weariness.

She looked through the inner hatchway toward the bridge, taking in the current operational status with a quick, professional glance, then returned her attention to him. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Mr. LeSeur?” Her voice was studiously neutral.

“You’ve heard about the latest killing?”

“Yes.”

“Commodore Cutter refuses to divert to St. John’s. We’re maintaining course for New York. Sixty-five hours and change.”

Mason said nothing. LeSeur turned to go and felt her staying hand on his shoulder. He felt a mild surprise: she had never touched him before.

“Officer LeSeur,” she said. “I wish you to come with me when I speak to the commodore.”

“I’ve been dismissed from the bridge, sir.”

“Consider yourself reinstated. And please call the second and third officers to the bridge, along with Mr. Halsey, the chief engineer. I will need them to act as witnesses.”

LeSeur felt his heart accelerate. “Yes, sir.” It was the work of five minutes to quietly round up the junior officers and Halsey and return to the bridge. Mason met them at the security hatch. Over her shoulder, LeSeur could see that the commodore was still walking back and forth before the bridge windows. His pace had slowed still further, and he was putting one foot before another with excruciating precision, head bowed, ignoring everyone and everything. At the sound of their entry, he at last paused, looked up. LeSeur knew Cutter could not help but see the bridge staff arrayed in a row behind him.

Cutter’s watery eyes went from Mason to LeSeur and back again. “What is the first officer doing here, Captain? I dismissed him.”

“I asked him to return to the bridge, sir.”

There was a long silence.

“And these other officers?”

“I asked them to be here, as well.”

Cutter continued to stare at her. “You are insubordinate, Captain.”

There was a pause before Mason replied. “Commodore Cutter, I respectfully ask you to justify your decision to maintain course and heading for New York instead of diverting to St. John’s.”

Cutter’s gaze hardened. “We’ve been over this already. Such a diversion is unnecessary and ill-considered.”

“Pardon me, sir, but the majority of your officers—and, I might add, a delegation of prominent passengers—think otherwise.”

“I repeat: you are insubordinate. You are hereby relieved of command.” Cutter turned to the two security officers standing guard by the bridge hatch. “Escort Captain Mason from the bridge.”

The two security guards stepped up to Mason. “Come with us, please, sir,” one of them said.

Mason ignored them. “Commodore Cutter, you haven’t seen what I have; what wehave. There are four thousand three hundred terrified passengers and crew on board this vessel. The security staff is wholly inadequate to handle a situation of this magnitude, something Mr. Kemper freely acknowledges. And the situation continues to escalate. The control, and therefore the safety, of this ship is at imminent risk. I insist that we divert to the closest available port—St. John’s. Any other course would endanger the ship and constitute dereliction of duty under Article V of the Maritime Code.”

LeSeur could hardly breathe. He waited for an enraged outburst, or a cold, Captain Bligh–like rebuff. Instead, Cutter did something unexpected. His body seemed to relax, and he came around and leaned on the edge of a console, folding his hands. His whole demeanor changed.

“Captain Mason, we’re all more than a little distraught.” He glanced at LeSeur. “Perhaps I was a little hasty in my response to you, too, Mr. LeSeur. There’s a reason why a ship has a master and why his orders are never to be questioned. We don’t have the time or luxury to start wrangling among ourselves, discussing our reasoning, voting like a committee. However, under the circumstances, I’m going to explain my reasoning. I will explain it once, and only once. I expect”—he glanced over at the deck officers and the chief engineer, and his voice hardened again—“you to listen. All of you must accept the ancient and time-honored sanctity of the master’s prerogative to make decisions aboard his ship, even decisions that involve life-or-death situations, such as this one. If I am wrong, that will be addressed once we reach port.”

He straightened. “We’re twenty-two hours to St. John’s, but only if we maintain speed. If we did divert, we’d be plunging into the heart of the storm. Instead of a following sea, we’d be subjected to a beam sea and then, as we cross the Grand Banks, a head-on sea. We’d be lucky to maintain twenty knots of headway. By this calculation St. John’s is thirty-two hours away, not twenty-two—and that’s only if the storm doesn’t worsen. I could easily imagine arriving in St. John’s forty hours from now.”

“That’s still a day ahead—”

The captain held up his hand, his face darkening. “ Excuse me. A straight heading to St. John’s, however, will take us dangerously close to Eastern Shoal and the Carrion Rocks. So we will need to chart a course around those obstacles, losing at least another hour or two. That makes it forty-two hours. The Grand Banks are riddled with fishing vessels, and some of the larger factory ships will be weathering the storm offshore, with sea anchors out, immobile, making us the give-way ship in all encounters. Knock off two knots of speed and add maneuvering room, and we lose another few hours. Even though it’s July, the iceberg season isn’t over, and recent growler activity has been reported along the outer margins of the Labrador Current, north of the Eastern Shoal. Knock off another hour. So we’re not twenty-two hours out of St. John’s. We’re forty-five.”

He paused dramatically.

“The Britanniahas now become the scene of a crime. Its passengers and crew are all suspects. Wherever we land, the ship will be detained by law enforcement and not released until the forensic examination of the ship is complete and all passengers and crew interviewed. St. John’s is a small, provincial city on an island in the Atlantic, with a minuscule constabulary and a small RCMP detachment. It doesn’t have anywhere near the kind of resources needed to do an effective and efficient job of evidence gathering. The Britanniacould languish in St. John’s for weeks, even a month or more, along with its crew and many passengers, at a loss to the corporation of hundreds of millions of dollars. The number of people on board this ship will swamp the town.”

He looked around at the silent group, licked his lips.

“New York City, on the other hand, has the facilities to conduct a proper criminal and forensic investigation. The passengers will be minimally inconvenienced and the ship will probably be released after a few days. Most importantly, the investigation will be state of the art. They will find and punish the killer.” Cutter closed his eyes slowly, then opened them again. It was a slow, strange gesture that gave LeSeur the creeps. “I trust I have made myself clear, Captain Mason?”

“Yes,” said Mason, her voice cold as ice. “But allow me to point out a fact you’ve overlooked, sir: the killer has struck four times in four days. Once a day, like clockwork. Your twenty-four extra hours to New York means one extra death. An unnecessary death. A death that you will be personally responsible for.”

There was a terrible silence.

“What does it matter that the passengers will be inconvenienced?” Mason continued. “Or that the ship might be stuck in port? Or that the corporation might lose millions of dollars? What does it matter when the life of a human being is at stake?”

“That’s true!” LeSeur said, louder than he intended. He was distantly surprised to hear that the voice which spoke up was his own. But he was sick at heart—sick of the killing, sick of the shipboard bureaucracy, sick of the endless talk about corporate profits—and he couldn’t help but speak. “That’s what this is all about: money. That’s all it boils down to. How much money the corporation might lose if its ship were stuck in St. John’s for a few weeks. Are we going to save the corporation money, or are we going to save a human life?”

“Mr. LeSeur,” Cutter said, “you are out of line—”

But LeSeur cut him off. “Listen: the most recent victim was an innocent sixteen-year-old girl, a kidfor God’s sake, traveling with her grandparents. Kidnapped and murdered! What if she had been a daughter of yours?” He turned to face the others. “Are we going to let this happen again? If we follow the course Commodore Cutter recommends, we’re very likely condemning another human being to a horrible death.”

LeSeur could see the junior deck officers nodding their agreement. There was no love lost for the corporation; Mason had hit a nerve. The chief engineer, Halsey, remained unreadable.

“Commodore, sir, you leave me no choice,” Mason said, her voice quiet but with a measured, almost fierce eloquence. “Either you divert this ship, or I’ll be forced to call for an emergency Article V action.”

Cutter stared at her. “That would be highly inadvisable.”

“It’s the last thing I want to do. But if you continue to refuse to see reason, you leave me no choice.”

“

Bullshit!

” This profanity, so remarkable on the lips of the commodore, sent a strange shock wave rippling across the bridge.

“Commodore?” Mason said.

But Cutter did not reply. He was staring out through the bridge windows, gaze fixed on an indeterminate horizon. His lips worked soundlessly.

“Commodore?” Mason repeated.

There was no reply.

“Very well.” Mason turned to the assembled group. “As second in command of the

Britannia

, I hereby invoke Article V against Commodore Cutter for dereliction of duty. Who will stand with me?”

LeSeur’s heart was pounding so hard in his chest it felt like it would burst from his rib cage. He looked around, his eyes meeting the frightened, hesitant eyes of the others. Then he stepped forward.

“I will,” he said.

46

PENDERGAST CONTINUED TO LOOK AT THE BRAQUE. A SMALL question, a nagging doubt, took root in the margins of his consciousness, spreading to fill the void he had created within his mind. Slowly, it intruded into his conscious thought:

There was something wrong with the painting.

It was not a forgery. There was no doubt it was genuine, and that it was the very painting auctioned at Christie’s in the Winter Sale five months before. But there was nevertheless somethingthat wasn’t right. The frame, for one thing, had been changed. But that wasn’t all . . .

He rose from his seat and approached the painting, pausing inches from its surface, and then stepping slowly back, staring intently at it the entire time. It came to him in a flash: part of the image was missing. The painting had lost an inch or two on the right side and at least three inches off the top.

He stood motionless, staring. He was sure the painting had been sold intact at Christie’s. That could mean only one thing: Blackburn himself had mutilated it for reasons of his own.

Pendergast’s breathing slowed as he contemplated this bizarre fact: that an art collector would mutilate a painting that had cost him over three million dollars.

He plucked the painting off the wall and turned it over. The canvas had recently been relined, as one might expect from a painting that had been cut down from its original size. He bent down and sniffed the canvas, coming away with the chalky smell of the glue used in relining. Very fresh: a lot fresher than five months. He pressed it with his fingernail. The glue had barely dried. The relining had been done in the last day or two.

He checked his watch: five minutes.

He quickly laid the painting face down on the thick carpeting, removed a penknife from his pocket, inserted it between the canvas and the stretcher, and—with exquisite care—pressed down on the blade, exposing the inside edge of the canvas. A dark, loose strip of old silk caught his eye.

The liner was false; something was hidden behind it. Something so valuable that Blackburn had sliced up a three-million-dollar painting to hide it.

He quickly examined the fake liner. It was held tight by the pressure between the canvas and the stretcher. Slowly, carefully, Pendergast prized the canvas away from one side of the stretcher, loosened the liner, then repeated the process on the other three sides. Keeping the painting facedown on the carpeting, he grasped the now loose corners of the liner between his thumb and forefinger, peeled it back.

Hidden between the fake liner and the real one was a painting on silk, covered by a loose silk cloth. Pendergast held it at arm’s length, then laid it on the carpet and drew back the silk cover.

For a moment, his mind went blank. It was as if a sudden puff of wind had blown the heavy dust from his brain, leaving a crystalline purity. The image assembled itself in his consciousness as his intellectual processes returned. It was a very ancient Tibetan mandala of astonishing, extraordinary, utterly unfathomable complexity. It was fantastically, maddeningly intricate, a swirling, interlocking geometric fantasy edged in gold and silver, an unsettling, disintegratingpalette of colors against the blackness of space. It was like a galaxy unto itself, with billions of stars swirling around a spinning singularity of extreme density and power . . .

Pendergast found his eye drawn inexorably to the singularity at the center of this bizarre design. Once it was fixed there, he found himself unable to move his eyes away. He made a minor effort, then a stronger one, marveling at the power of the image to hold both his mind and his gaze in thrall. It had happened so suddenly, so stealthily as it were, that he had no time to prepare himself. The dark hole at the center of the mandala seemed to be alive, pulsing, crawling in the most repellent way, opening itself like some foul orifice. He felt as if a corresponding hole had been opened in the center of his own forehead, that the countless billions of memories and experiences and opinions and judgments that made up his unique persona were being twisted, being altered; that his very soul was being drawn out of his body and sucked into the mandala, in which he became the mandala and the mandala became him. It was as if he were being transfigured into the metaphysical body of the enlightened Buddha . . . Except that this wasn’t the Buddha.

That was the sheer, implacable, inescapable terror of it.

This was some other universal being, the anti-Buddha, the physical manifestation of pure evil. And it was here, with him, in this painting. In this room . . .

And in his head . . .

47

THE SOUND OF LESEUR’S VOICE DIED OUT ON THE BRIDGE, REPLACED by the howling of wind and the splatter of rain on the windows, the electronic beeping and chiming of the ECDIS electronics and radar as they went through their cycles.

No one spoke. LeSeur felt a sudden panic. He’d gotten ahead of the curve, throwing his hat into the ring with Mason. He had just made the move that would guarantee career suicide.

Finally, the officer of the watch stepped forward, a gruff mariner in the old style. Eyes downcast, hands clasped over his uniform, he was the very picture of stiff-jawed courage. He cleared his throat and began to speak. “A master’s first responsibility is to the lives of the people aboard ship—crew and passengers.”

Cutter stared at him, his chest rising and falling.

“I’m with you, Captain Mason. We’ve got to get this ship into port.”

The man finally raised his eyes and faced Cutter. The captain returned the look with a gaze of such ferocity it seemed to physically assault the man. The officer of the watch dropped his eyes once more—but did not step back.

Now the second officer stepped forward, followed by two junior officers. Without a word Halsey, the chief engineer, stepped forward. They stood in a tight group in the center bridge, nervous, uneasy, their eyes avoiding the commodore’s fatal stare. Kemper, the security chief, remained rooted in place, his fleshy face strained with anxiety.

Captain Mason turned to him and spoke, her voice cold, matter-of-fact. “This is a legal action under Article V. Your agreement is necessary, Mr. Kemper. You must make a decision—now. If you do not declare with us, it means you’ve taken the commodore’s side. In that case, we will proceed to New York—and you will assume the burden of responsibility for all that entails.”

“I—” Kemper croaked.

“This is a mutiny,” said Cutter, his gravelly voice low and threatening. “A mutiny, pure and simple. You go along with this, Kemper, and you’re guilty of mutiny on the high seas, which is a criminaloffense. I will see you charged to the fullest extent. You will never set foot on the deck of a ship again as long as you live. That goes for the rest of you.”

Mason took a step toward Kemper, her voice softening just slightly. “Through no fault of your own, you’ve been placed between a rock and hard place. On the one hand, a possible charge of mutiny. On the other, a possible charge of negligent homicide. Life is hard, Mr. Kemper. Take your pick.”

The chief of security was breathing so hard he was almost hyperventilating. He looked from Mason to Cutter and back, eyes darting around as if seeking a way out. There was none. He spoke, all in a rush. “We’ve got to make port as soon as possible.”

“That’s an opinion, not a declaration,” said Mason coolly.

“I’m . . . I’m with you.”

Mason turned her keen eyes on the commodore.

“You’re are a disgrace to your uniform and to a thousand years of maritime tradition!” Cutter roared. “This shall not stand!”

“Commodore Cutter,” Mason said, “you are hereby relieved of command under Article V of the Maritime Code. I will give you one opportunity to remove yourself from the bridge, with dignity. Then I shall order you removed.”

“You . . . you vixen! You’re living proof that women have no place on the bridge of a ship!” And Cutter rushed at her with an inarticulate roar, grasping the lapel of her uniform before two security guards seized him. He cursed, clawing and roaring like a bear, as they wrestled him to the ground, pinned him, and handcuffed him.

“Brown-haired bitch! May you burn in hell!”

More security guards were called in from a nearby detail and the commodore was subdued with great difficulty. He was finally wrestled off, his thundering voice hurling imprecations down the companionway until at last silence fell.

LeSeur looked at Mason and was surprised to see a flush of poorly concealed triumph on her face. She looked at her watch. “I will note for the log that command of the Britanniahas been transferred from Commodore Cutter to Staff Captain Mason at ten-fifty, GMT.” She turned to Kemper. “Mr. Kemper, I shall need all the keys, passwords, and authorization codes to the ship and all electronic and security systems.”

“Yes, sir.”

She turned to the navigator. “And now, if you please, reduce speed to twenty-four knots and lay in a course for St. John’s, Newfoundland.”

48

THE DOOR OPENED SOFTLY. CONSTANCE ROSE FROM THE DIVAN with a sharp intake of breath. Pendergast slipped through the door, strolled over to the small bar, pulled down a bottle, and examined the label. He removed the cork with a faint pop, took out a glass, and casually poured himself a sherry. Carrying the bottle and glass with him, he took a seat on the sofa, put the bottle on a side table, and leaned back, examining the color of the sherry in the light.

“Did you find it?” Constance asked.

He nodded, still examining the color of the sherry, and then tossed off the glass. “The storm has intensified,” he said.

Constance glanced toward the glass doors that opened onto the balcony, lashed with flecks of spume. The rain was now so heavy she couldn’t see down to the water; there was only a field of gray, grading to darkness.

“Well?” She tried to control the excitement in her voice. “What was it?”

“An old mandala.” He poured himself a second glass, then raised it toward Constance. “Care to join me?”

“No, thank you. What kind of mandala? Where was it hidden?” His coyness could be maddening.

Pendergast took a long, lingering sip, exhaled. “Our man had hidden it behind a Braque painting. He trimmed down and restretched the painting in order to hide the Agozyen behind it. A lovely Braque, from his early cubist period—utterly spoiled. A shame. He’d hidden it recently, too. He had evidently learned about the maid that went crazy after cleaning his rooms—and perhaps he even knew of my interest. The box was in the safe. Apparently, he felt the safe wasn’t secure enough for the mandala—with good reason, as it turns out. Or perhaps he simply wanted to have it accessible at all times.”

“What did it look like?”

“The mandala? The usual four-sided arrangement of interlocking squares and circles, done in the ancient Kadampa style, astonishingly intricate—but of little interest to anyone beyond a collector or a superstitious group of Tibetan monks. Constance, would you kindly sit down? It is not agreeable to speak to a standing person when one is seated.”

Constance subsided into her seat. “That’s all? Just an old mandala?”

“Are you disappointed?”

“I thought, somehow, that we’d be dealing with something extraordinary. Perhaps even . . .” She hesitated. “I don’t know. Something with almost supernatural power.”

Pendergast issued a dry chuckle. “I fear you took your studies at Gsalrig Chongg a trifle too literally.” He sipped his sherry again.

“Where is it?” she asked. “I left it in situ for the time being. It’s safe with him and we know where it is now. We’ll take it from him at the end of the voyage, at the last minute, when he won’t have time to respond.”

Constance sat back. “Somehow I can’t believe it. Just a thangka painting.”

Pendergast eyed the sherry again. “Our little pro bono assignment is nearly finished. All that remains is the problem of relieving Blackburn of his ill-gotten goods, and as I said, that is trifling. I have already worked out most of the details. I do hope we won’t have to kill him, although I wouldn’t consider it much of a loss.”

“Kill him? Good God, Aloysius, I would certainly hope to avoid that.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “Really? I should have thought you would be accustomed to it by now.”

Constance stared at him, flushing. “What are you talking about?”

Pendergast smiled, dropped his eyes again. “Constance, forgive me; that was insensitive. No, we won’t kill Blackburn. We’ll find another way to take his precious toy.”

There was a long silence as Pendergast sipped his sherry.

“Did you hear the rumor of the mutiny?” said Constance.

Pendergast didn’t seem to hear.

“Marya just informed me of it. Apparently the staff captain has taken command, and now we’re heading to Newfoundland instead of New York. The ship’s in a panic. They’re instituting a curfew, there’s supposed to be an important announcement coming over the public address system at noon”—she glanced at her watch—“in an hour.”

Pendergast set down the empty glass and rose. “I am somewhat fatigued from my labors. I believe I shall take a rest. Would you see to it that upon rising at three o’clock I have a breakfast of eggs Benedict and Hojicha green tea waiting for me, fresh and hot?”

Without another word, he glided up the stairs to his bedroom. A moment later, his door eased shut behind him and the lock turned with a soft click.

49

LESEUR WAS ONE HOUR INTO THE AFTERNOON WATCH, AND HE stood at the integrated bridge workstation, before the giant array of ECDIS chartplotters and vector radar overlays, tracking the progress of the ship as it cut across the Grand Banks on a course for St. John’s. There had been no sea traffic—merely a few large ships riding out the storm—and progress had been rapid.

Since the change of command the bridge had been eerily silent. Captain Mason seemed subdued by the weight of her new responsibilities. She had not left the bridge since relieving Cutter of command, and it struck him that she would probably remain there until the ship came into port. She had raised the state of emergency to ISPS Code Level Two. Then she’d cleared the bridge of all but essential personnel, leaving only the officer of the watch, helmsman, and a single lookout. LeSeur was surprised at what a good decision that turned out to be: it created an oasis of calm, of focus, that a more heavily manned bridge did not have.

He wondered just how this Article V action was going to play out with Corporate and how it would affect his career. Adversely, no doubt. He consoled himself that he’d had no choice. He had done the right thing and that was what counted. That was the best you could do in life. How others took it was beyond his control.

LeSeur’s experienced eye roved over the big-screen electronics, the Trimble NavTrac and Northstar 941X DGPS, the four different sets of electronic charts, the gyro, radar, speed logs, loran, and depth sounders. The bridge would be hardly recognizable to a naval officer of even ten years before. But on one side, at a navigational table, LeSeur still charted the ship’s course the old-fashioned way, on paper, using a set of fine brass navigation instruments, parallel rulers and dividers given to him by his father. He even occasionally took a sun or star sight to determine position. It was unnecessary, but it gave him a vital connection with the great traditions of his profession.

He glanced at the speed and course readouts. The ship was on autopilot, as usual, and LeSeur had to admit the Britanniawas proving to be unusually sea-kindly, despite a thirty-foot beam sea and forty– to fifty-knot gale winds. True, there was a rather unpleasant long– period, corkscrewing roll, but he could only imagine how much worse it would be for a smaller cruise ship. The Britanniawas making twenty-two knots, better than expected. They would be in St. John’s in less than twenty hours.

He felt a great relief at the way Mason had quietly taken charge. In her noon announcement to the entire ship over the PA system, she had quietly explained that the commodore had been relieved of duty and that she had taken over. In a calm, reassuring voice she had declared an ISPS Code Level Two state of emergency and explained that they were diverting to the closest port. She had asked passengers for their own safety to spend most of their time quietly in their staterooms. When leaving their cabins for meals, she urged them to travel in groups or pairs.

LeSeur glanced at the ARPA radar. So far, so good. There had been no sign of ice, and what few ships were still on the Banks had been lying to well off their course. He touched the dial of the ECDIS and changed the scale to twenty-four miles. They were closing in on a waypoint, at which the autopilot would execute a course correction that would take them clear of the Carrion Rocks on the leeward side. After that, it was a straight shot into St. John’s Harbour.

Kemper appeared on the bridge.

“How are things on the passenger decks?” LeSeur asked.

“As good as could be expected, sir.” He hesitated. “I’ve reported the change of command to Corporate.”

LeSeur swallowed. “And?”