Текст книги "The Wheel of Darkness"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

The finger moved again. “All the evidence shows that Ambrose contacted a known collector, perhaps not of Asian antiquities per se, but a collector nonetheless. And a man whose face might be recognizable to members of the general public. Which leaves us with twenty-six.”

He glanced up at Constance. “The murderer is clever. Put yourself in his shoes. He has to get this awkward box on board ship without being conspicuous. He would not have boarded immediately, carrying the box—that would be remembered. And besides, he was covered with blood from the murder; he’d have to change his clothes and wash up in a secure place. So what would he do?”

“Go to a hotel room, wash, repack the Agozyen in a larger steamer trunk, and then board at the height of the final crush.”

“Precisely. And that would be around nine this morning.”

Constance smiled wryly.

The finger lifted from the paper. “Which leaves us with just eight suspects—right here. You’ll note a curious coincidence: two were at our table.” He pushed the paper over. She read the names:

Lionel Brock. Owner of Brock Galleries, West 57th Street, New York City. Age 52. Prominent dealer of impressionist and post– impressionist paintings.

Scott Blackburn, former President and CEO, Gramnet, Inc. Age 41. Silicon Valley billionaire. Collects Asian art and 20th-century painting.

Jason Lambe, CEO, Agamemnon.com. Age 42. Technology mogul, Blackburn a major investor in his company. Collects Chinese porcelain and Japanese woodcuts and paintings.

Terrence Calderón, CEO, TeleMobileX Solutions. Age 34. Technology mogul, friend of Blackburn. Collects French antiques.

Edward Smecker, Lord Cliveburgh, reputed cat burglar. Age 24. Collects antique jewelry, silver and gold plate, reliquaries, and objets d’art.

Claude Dallas, movie star. Age 31. Collects Pop art.

Felix Strage, chairman of the Department of Greek and Roman Art, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City. Collects Greek and Roman antiquities.

Victor Delacroix, author and bon vivant. Age 36. Eclectic art collector.

Pendergast reached over with a pen and drew a line through the last name. “This one we can eliminate right away.”

“How?”

“I noticed at dinner he was left-handed. The killer is right-handed.”

She looked at him. “You’ve eliminated two thousand six hundred and ninety-three suspects—and you haven’t even resorted to cleverness yet.”

“Eliminating the last seven might prove more challenging. This is where we must divide if we are to conquer.” He glanced at her. “I will undertake the investigation abovedecks, among the passengers and ship’s officers. I’d like you to handle the belowdecks portion of our search.”

“Belowdecks? If it’s not a member of the crew, then why bother?”

“The best place to hear gossip and rumor on the passengers is belowdecks.”

“But why me?”

“You have a better chance of convincing crew members to talk than I do.”

“And what am I looking for, exactly?”

“Generally, anything your instincts tell you would be helpful. Specifically, a box. A long, awkward box.”

She paused. “How am I to get belowdecks?”

“You’ll find a way.” He placed a cautionary hand on her elbow. “But I must warn you, Constance—I don’t understand this killer. And that worries me. As it should you.”

She nodded.

“Make no moves on your own. Observe, then come to me. Agreed?”

“Yes, Aloysius.”

“In that case, the game, as they say, is afoot. Shall we toast the hunt with a fine old port?” Pendergast once again picked up the wine list. “The ’55 Taylor is drinking exceptionally well right now, I understand.”

She waved her hand. “I’m not in the mood for port, thank you, but please yourself.”

12

JUANITA SANTAMARIA WHEELED HER MAID’S TROLLEY DOWN THE elegant gold carpeting of Deck 12, her lips pursed in a slight frown, her eyes locked straight ahead. The trolley, piled high with fresh linens and scented soap, squeaked as it moved over the plush nap.

As she rounded a bend in the corridor, a passenger approached: a well-preserved woman of about sixty with a violet rinse. “Excuse me, my dear,” the woman said to Juanita. “Is this the way to the SunSpa?”

“Yes,” the maid replied.

“Oh, and another thing. I’d like to send the captain a note of thanks. What’s his name again?”

“Yes,” said Juanita, without stopping.

Ahead, the hall ended in a plain brown door. Juanita pushed the trolley through and into a service area that lay beyond. Large canvas bags of soiled laundry lay to one side, along with stacks of gray plastic tubs full of dirty room-service dishes, all waiting to be transported to the bowels of the ship. To the right lay a bank of service elevators. Wheeling the trolley up to the nearest elevator, Juanita extended her arm and pressed the down button.

As she did so, her finger trembled ever so slightly.

The elevator doors whispered open. Juanita pushed the trolley inside, then turned to face the control panel. Once again, she reached out to press a button. This time, however, she hesitated, staring at the panel, her face slack. She waited so long that the doors slid shut again and the elevator hung in its shaft, motionless, waiting. At last—very slowly, as if zombified—she pressed the button for Deck C. With a hum, the car began to descend.

The main starboard corridor of Deck C was cramped, low-ceilinged, and stuffy. It was as crowded as Deck 12 had been empty: busboys, maids, croupiers, hostesses, technicians, stewards, manicurists, electricians, and a host of others scurried past, intent on the innumerable errands and assignments required to keep a grand ocean liner running. Juanita pushed her trolley out into the ant-farm bustle, then stopped, staring back and forth as if lost. More than one person glared at her as they passed: the corridor was not wide, and the trolley, parked in the middle, quickly created a jam.

“Hey!” A frowsy woman wearing a supervisor’s uniform came bustling up. “No carts allowed down here, get that up to housekeeping right away.”

Juanita had her back to the woman and did not respond. The supervisor grabbed her by the shoulder and wheeled her around. “I said, get that—” Recognizing Juanita, she stopped.

“Santamaria?” she said. “What the

hell

are you doing down here? Your shift doesn’t end for another five hours. Get your ass back up to Deck 12.”

Juanita said nothing, made no eye contact.

“You hear me? Get back abovedecks before I have you written up and docked a day’s pay. You—”

The supervisor stopped. Something in Juanita’s vacant expression, the dark hollows of her eyes, made her fall silent.

Abandoning the maid’s trolley in the middle of the corridor, Juanita walked past the woman and made her way unsteadily through the crowds. The supervisor, spooked, simply watched her go.

Juanita’s quarters were in a cramped, oppressive warren of cabins near the ship’s stern. Although the turbine/diesel power plant was three decks beneath, the thrumming vibration and smell of fuel haunted the air like a drifting infection. As she approached the cabin, her step grew slower still. As crew members passed by, they frequently turned back to look at her, shocked by her unfocused eyes and the drawn, spectral look on her face.

She stopped outside her door, hesitant. A minute passed, then two. Suddenly, the door opened from within and a dark, black-haired woman began to step out. She wore the uniform of the waitstaff for Hyde Park, the informal restaurant on Deck 7. Seeing Juanita, she stopped abruptly.

“Juanita, girl!” she said in a Haitian accent. “You surprised me.”

Again, Juanita said nothing. She stared past the woman as if she weren’t there.

“Juanita, what’s wrong? You’re all staring, like you saw a ghost.” There was a splatter as Juanita’s bladder gave way. Yellow coils of urine trickled down her legs and puddled on the linoleum of the corridor.

The woman in the waitress uniform jumped back. “Hey!”

The loud voice seemed to rouse Juanita. Her glassy eyes focused. They swiveled toward the woman in the doorway. Then, very slowly, they moved down her face, to her throat, where a gold medallion hung from a simple chain. It depicted a many-headed snake, crouched below the rays of a stylized sun.

Suddenly, Juanita’s eyes widened. Thrusting out her hands as if to ward something off, she half staggered, half fell back into the hallway. Her mouth yawned open, showing an alarming cavern of pink.

That was when the screams began.

13

ROGER MAYLES WALKED ACROSS THE PLUSHLY CARPETED FLOOR OF the Mayfair Casino, nodding and smiling as he went. The Britanniahad been in international waters for less than five hours, but already the casino was buzzing: the din of slot machines, blackjack and roulette dealers, and craps players drowned out the floor show currently playing in the Royal Court, just forward in the bow of Deck 4. Almost everybody was wearing a tux or a black evening gown: most had rushed straight down here after the First Night dinner without bothering to change.

A cocktail waitress carrying a salver laden with champagne stopped him. “Hello, Mr. Mayles,” she said over the noise. “Care for a glass?”

“No thank you, darling.”

A Dixieland band was wailing almost at their elbows, adding to the sensation of frantic merriment. The Mayfair was the most boisterous of the Britannia’s three casinos, and, Mayles thought, was a giddy spectacle to greed and Mammon. The first night at sea was always the most gleefully chaotic: nobody had yet been sobered by large casino losses. Mayles winked at the waitress and continued on, glancing from table to table. A small dome of smoked glass had been discreetly set into the ceiling over each one, almost invisible among the dazzling crystal chandeliers. The decor was fin de siècle London, all crushed velvet and rich wood and antique brass. In the center of the vast room rose a bizarre sculpture carved out of pale pink ice: Lord Nelson, clad rather perversely in a toga.

Reaching the casino’s bar, Mayles took a right and stopped before an unmarked door. Pulling a passcard from his pocket, he swiped it through an adjoining reader and the lock popped open. He glanced from left to right, then slipped quickly inside, away from the noise and bustle.

The room beyond had no overhead lights. Instead, it was illuminated by a hundred small CCTV monitors set into all four walls, each displaying a different perspective of the casino: bird’s-eye views of tables, banks of slot machines, cashiers. This was the “pit” of the Mayfair Casino, where the casino staff vigilantly monitored gamblers, croupiers, dealers, and money handlers alike.

Two technicians in chairs with rollers studied the displays, their faces spectral in the wash of blue light. Victor Hentoff, the casino manager, stood behind them, also frowning at the monitors. He would spend most of the next six days shuttling between the ship’s casinos, and he had spent so many years staring at screens that his face had acquired a kind of perpetual squint. At the sound of Mayles’s entrance, he turned.

“Roger,” he said in a gruff voice, holding out his hand.

Mayles reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope.

“Thanks,” Hentoff said. He slit open the envelope with a fat finger and pulled out several sheets. “My God,” he said, flipping through them.

“Lots of low-hanging fruit,” Mayles said. “Ripe for the picking.”

“Care to give me an executive summary?”

“Sure.” Along with everything else Mayles had to do, the casino staff expected him to provide them, discreetly, with a list of potential high rollers—or easy marks—for special cultivation and buttering up. “The Countess of Westleigh is back for another fleecing. Remember what happened on the maiden voyage of the Oceania?”

Hentoff rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe she’d return after that.”

“She has a weakness for maiden voyages. And baccarat dealers. Then there’s—”

Suddenly, Hentoff wasn’t looking at Mayles anymore. He was looking over the cruise director’s shoulder. At the same moment, Mayles noticed that the noise level in the room had gone up tremendously. He turned to follow Hentoff’s gaze and with a thrill of dismay saw that his dinner guest, Pendergast, had somehow let himself into the pit and was now closing the door behind him.

“Ah, Mr. Mayles,” Pendergast said. “Here you are.”

The feeling of dismay deepened. The cruise director rarely made poor choices for his dining companions, but selecting Pendergast and his “ward” had been a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat.

Pendergast swept his gaze around the walls of monitors. “Charming view you have in here.”

“How did you get in?” Hentoff demanded.

“Just a little parlor trick.” Pendergast gave a dismissive wave.

“Well, you can’t stay here, sir. This area is off-limits to passengers.”

“I just have a request or two to make of Mr. Mayles, then I’ll be on my way.”

The casino manager turned to Mayles. “Roger, you know this passenger?”

“We dined together. How can I help you, Mr. Pendergast?” Mayles asked, with an ingratiating smile.

“What I’m about to tell you all is confidential,” Pendergast said.

Oh no

, Mayles thought, feeling his sensitive nerves tense up. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a continuation of Pendergast’s morbid dinner conversation.

“I’m not just aboard the

Britannia

to relax and take the air.”

“Indeed?”

“I’m here as a favor to a friend. You see, gentlemen, my friend has had something stolen from him—something of great value. That object is currently in the possession of a passenger on this ship. It is my intention to retrieve the object and return it to the rightful owner.”

“Are you a private investigator?” Hentoff asked.

Pendergast considered this a moment, his pale eyes reflecting the light of the monitors. “You could certainly say that my investigations are private.”

“So you’re a freelancer,” Hentoff said. The casino manager was unable to keep a note of disdain from his voice. “Sir, once again I must ask you to leave.”

Pendergast glanced around at the screens, then returned his attention to Mayles. “It’s your job, isn’t it, Mr. Mayles, to know about the individual passengers?”

“That’s one of my pleasures,” Mayles replied.

“Excellent. Then you are just the person to provide me with information that can help me track down the thief.”

“I’m afraid we can’t share passenger information,” Mayles said, his voice edging into winter.

“But this man could be dangerous. He committed murder to obtain the object.”

“Then our security staff would handle the matter,” said Hentoff. “I’d be happy to direct you to a security officer who could take down the information and keep it on file.”

Pendergast shook his head. “Alas, I can’t involve low-level staff in my investigation. Discretion is paramount.”

“What

is

this object?” Hentoff asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t be specific. It is an Asian antique of great value.”

“And how do you know it’s on board ship?”

In response, Pendergast’s lips merely twitched in what might have been a faint smile.

“Mr. Pendergast,” Mayles said in the voice he reserved for humoring the most truculent of passengers. “You won’t tell us what you’re looking for. You won’t tell us how you’re sure it’s aboard the Britannia. You aren’t here in any official capacity—and in any case we are now in international waters. Our own security staff is the law—U.S. and British law no longer applies. I’m sorry, but we simply can’t sanction your investigation or help you in any way. On the contrary, we will take it seriously amiss if your investigation disturbs any of our guests.” To ease the sting of this refusal, he gave Pendergast his most winning smile. “I’m sure you understand.”

Pendergast nodded slowly. “I understand.” He gave a little bow, then turned to go. And then, hand on the doorframe, he stopped.

“I suppose,” he said casually, “you’re aware that a group of card counters is active on your floor?” And he nodded his head vaguely toward a cluster of screens.

Mayles glanced over, but he wasn’t trained in pit observation and all he saw were swarms of men and women at the blackjack tables.

“What are you talking about?” Hentoff asked sharply.

“Card counters. Highly professional and well organized, too, based on how successful they’ve been at not drawing, ah,

heat

.”

“What rot,” Hentoff said. “We’ve seen nothing of the sort. What is this, some kind of game?”

“It’s not a game to them,” Pendergast said. “At least, not in the sense you’d like it to be.”

For a moment, Pendergast and the casino manager looked at each other. Then, with a hiss of irritation, Hentoff turned to one of his technicians. “What’s the running take?”

The technician picked up the phone, made a quick call. Then he glanced up at Hentoff. “Mayfair’s down two hundred thousand pounds, sir.”

“Where—across the board?”

“At the blackjack tables, sir.”

Quickly, Hentoff looked back at the screens and stared for a moment. Then he turned back to Pendergast. “Which ones are they?”

Pendergast smiled. “Ah! I’m afraid they’ve just left.”

“How convenient. And just how, exactly, were they counting cards?”

“They appeared to be running a variant of the ‘Red-7’ or the ‘K-O.’ It’s hard to be certain, given that I wasn’t really studying the screens. And their cover is good enough that they obviously haven’t been caught before: if they had been, you’d have had mug shots in your database and your facial recognition scanners would have picked them up.”

As he listened, Hentoff’s face grew increasingly red. “How in the world would you know something like this?”

“As you said yourself, Mr.—Hentoff, is it? I’m a

freelancer

.”

For a long moment, nobody spoke. The two technicians sat as if frozen, not daring to look away from their screens.

“It’s clear you could use some assistance in this matter, Mr. Hentoff. I’d be happy to provide it.”

“In exchange for our help with your little problem,” Hentoff said sarcastically. “Precisely.”

There was another strained silence. At last, Hentoff sighed. “Jesus. What exactly is it you want?”

“I have great faith in Mr. Mayles’s abilities. He has access to all the passenger files. His job is socializing with everyone on board, asking questions, soliciting information. He’s in an excellent position to help. Please don’t worry, Mr. Mayles, about disturbing the passengers—I’m interested in a handful of passengers only. I’d like to know, for example, if any of this handful consigned items to the central safe, if their cabins are on the ‘no entry’ list for housekeeping . . . that sort of thing.” Then he turned to Hentoff. “And I might need your help as well.”

“With what?”

“With—let’s see, what is the expression?—greasing the wheels.”

Hentoff glanced from Pendergast to Mayles.

“I’ll consider it,” Mayles muttered.

“For your sakes,” said Pendergast, “I hope you don’t take too long. Down two hundred thousand pounds in five hours—that’s a rather nasty trend.” He rose with a smile and slipped out of the pit without another word.

14

CONSTANCE GREENE DRIFTED DOWN THE BROAD THOROUGHFARE of boutiques and upscale shops on Deck 6 known as St. James’s. Although it was past midnight, the Britanniashowed no signs of settling down for the night: beautifully dressed couples strolled along, gazing at the window displays or chatting in low tones. Large vases of fresh flowers lined the passages, and a string quartet could be heard sawing learnedly over the chatter and laughter. The air smelled of lilac, and lavender, and champagne.

Constance moved slowly on, passing a wine bar, jeweler, and art gallery, the latter featuring original signed prints by Miró, Klee, and Dalí at astronomical prices. Inside the doorway, an ancient woman in a wheelchair was scolding the young blonde woman pushing her. Something about the young woman gave Constance pause: the girl’s downcast eyes and faraway expression, hinting of some private sorrow, could have been her own.

Past the arcade of St. James’s, a set of ornate double doors opened onto the Grand Atrium: a vast eight-story space in the heart of the ship. Constance stepped up to the railing, glanced first upward, then down. It was a remarkable vista of terraced balconies and sparkling chandeliers and countless vertical rows of lights and exposed elevators of stained glass and crystal. Below, at the King’s Arms restaurant on Deck 2, knots of people were sitting around red leather banquettes, dining on Dover sole, oysters Rockefeller, and tournedos of beef. Waiters and sommeliers wound their way among them, one setting down a plate brimming with delicacies, another bending solicitously over a diner to better hear his request. Tiers of balconies on Decks 3 and 4 overlooking the Atrium held additional tables. The clatter of silverware, the murmur of conversation, the ebb and flow of music, all drifted up to Constance’s ears. It was a hothouse atmosphere of luxury and privilege, a huge floating city-palace, the grandest the world had ever seen. And yet Constance remained utterly unmoved. Indeed, there was something repellent to her in all this desperate pursuit of pleasure. How different was this frantic activity, this coarse consumption and anxious attachment to the things of the world, from her life in the monastery. She longed to return.

Be in the world but not of it.

Turning away from the railing, she walked over to a nearby elevator bank and ascended to Deck 12. This deck was almost entirely given over to passenger accommodations; while still a picture of elegance, with its thick oriental carpets and gilt-framed landscapes in oils, its atmosphere was much more sedate. She moved forward. Ahead, the corridor ended, making a ninety-degree turn to the left. Straight ahead was the door to her suite, the Tudor, situated at the aft port corner of the ship. Constance began to reach for her passcard, then froze.

The door to the suite was ajar.

Instantly, her heart began to beat furiously, as if it had been waiting for just such an event. Her guardian would never have been so careless—it had to be somebody else. It can’t be him, she thought. It can’t. I saw him fall. I saw him die. A part of her knew that her fears were irrational. Yet she could not ease the sudden racing of her heart.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a slender box, snapped it open, and removed a gleaming scalpel from its plush nest. The scalpel

he

had given her.

Holding the blade before her, she advanced silently into the stateroom. The main salon of the suite was oval in shape, ending in a large two-story plate-glass window overlooking the black Atlantic roiling far below. One door to the left led to a convenience pantry, another to the right opened onto the room she and Aloysius used as a study. The room was lit by a dim courtesy light. Beyond she could see moonlight painting a glittering trail across the heaving ocean, throwing jewels into the ship’s wake. It illuminated a sofa, two wing chairs, the dining area, a baby grand piano. Twin staircases curved up the walls to the left and right. The left led to Pendergast’s bedroom; the right to Constance’s. Taking another silent step forward, she craned her neck, looking upward.

The door to her room was ajar. Pale yellow light streamed out from beneath it.

She took a fresh grip on the knife. Then—slowly, and in complete silence—she crossed the room and began ascending the stairs.

During the course of the evening, the seas had steadily grown stronger. The slow roll of the ship, once barely perceptible, was becoming distinct. From above and far forward came the long, mournful cry of the ship’s whistle. Sliding one hand up the banister, Constance took slow, careful steps.

She gained the landing, stepped toward the door. There was no sound from beyond. She paused. Then she violently pushed the door open and darted inside.

There was a startled cry. Constance whirled toward the sound, knife extended.

It was the cabin stewardess, the dark-haired woman who had introduced herself earlier. She had been standing by the bookcase, apparently engrossed in the book she had just dropped in surprise. Now she looked at Constance, her expression a mixture of shock, dismay, and fear. Her eyes fastened on the gleaming scalpel.

“What are you doing here?” Constance demanded.

The shock was slow to leave the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, miss. Please, I just came in to turn down the beds . . .” she began in her thick Eastern European accent. She continued to stare at the scalpel, terror distorting her face.

Constance slipped the scalpel back in the case and returned it to her bag. Then she reached for the bedside phone to call security.

“

No!

” the woman cried. “Please. They’ll abandon me at next port, leave me in New York with no way of getting home.”

Constance hesitated, hand on the phone. She eyed the woman warily.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman went on. “I come in to turn down bed, put chocolate on pillow. And then I saw . . . I saw . . .” She pointed at the book she had dropped.

Constance glanced at it. To her vast surprise, she saw it was the thin volume titled

Poems of Akhmatova

.

Constance was not quite sure why she had brought this book along. Its history—and its legacy—was painful to her. Just to look upon it now was difficult. Perhaps she’d carried it as a penitent carries a cilice, hoping to atone for her misjudgment through pain.

“You like Akhmatova?” she said.

The woman nodded. “When I came here, I could bring no books. I have missed them. And then, turning down your bed, I saw—I saw yours.” She swallowed.

Constance continued to gaze at her speculatively. “

I have lit my treasured candles

,” she quoted Akhmatova. “

One by one, to hallow this night

.”

Without taking her eyes from Constance, the woman replied, “

With you, who do not come, I wait the birth of the year.

”

Constance stepped back from the phone.

“Back home, in Belarus, I taught the poetry of Akhmatova,” the woman said.

“High school?”

The woman shook her head. “University. In Russian, of course.”

“You’re a professor?” Constance asked, surprised.

“I was. I lost my job—as did many others.”

“And now you work on board . . . as a maid?” The woman smiled sadly. “It is the same for a lot of us here. We lose many jobs. Or our countries have few jobs. Everything is corrupt.”

“Your family?”

“My parents had a farm, but it was taken away by the government because of the fallout. From Chernobyl. The plume drifted west, you see. For ten years I taught Russian literature at university. But then I lost my position. Later I heard of work on the big boats. So I come here to work, send money home.” She shook her head bitterly.

Constance took a seat in a nearby chair. “What’s your name?”

“Marya Kazulin.”

“Marya, I am willing to forget this breach of privacy. But in return, I would like your help.”

The woman’s expression grew guarded. “How can I possibly help you?”

“I would like to be able to go belowdecks from time to time, chat with the workers, the stewards, the various members of the crew. Ask a few questions. You could introduce me, vouch for me.”

“Questions?” the woman became alarmed. “You work for the shipping line?”

Constance shook her head. “No. I have my reasons, personal reasons. Nothing involving the company or the ship. Forgive me if I’m not more specific at this point.”

Marya Kazulin seemed to relax slightly, but she said nothing. “This could get me into trouble.”

“I’ll be very discreet. I just want to mingle, ask a few questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About life on board the ship, any unusual goings-on, gossip about the passengers. And whether or not anyone has seen a specific item in one of the cabins.”

“Passengers? I do not think this is good idea.”

Constance hesitated. “Ms. Kazulin, I’ll tell you what it’s about, if you promise not to speak of this to anyone.”

After a hesitation, the maid nodded.

“I’m looking for something hidden on board the ship. An object, sacred and very rare. I was hoping to mingle with the housekeeping staff, to see if anyone has seen something like it in a stateroom.”

“And this item you mention? What is it?”

Constance paused. “It’s a long, narrow box, made of wood, very old, with odd writing on it.”

Marya considered this a moment. Then she straightened up. “Then I will help you.” She smiled, her face betraying a certain excitement. “It is

horrible

to work on cruise ship. This make it more interesting. And it for good cause.” Constance held out her hand and they shook.

Marya eyed her. “I will get you uniform like mine.” She waved a hand over her front. “You cannot be seen below the waterline dressed as passenger.”

“Thank you. How will I contact you?”

“I will contact you,” Marya said. She knelt, retrieved the book, and handed it to Constance. “Good night, miss.”

Constance held her hand for a moment, and pressed the book into it. “Take it. And please don’t call me ‘miss.’ My name is Constance.”

With a fleeting smile, Marya retreated toward the door and let herself out.

15

FIRST OFFICER GORDON LESEUR HAD SERVED ON DOZENS OF SHIP’S bridges in his career at sea, from admiralty cutters to destroyers to cruise ships. The bridge of the Britanniaresembled none of them. It was quieter, ultramodern, spacious—and curiously unnautical in feeling, with its many computer screens, electronic consoles, dials, and printers. Everything on the bridge was a model of beyond-state-of-the-art technology. What it most resembled, he mused, was the sleek control room of a French nuclear power plant he’d toured the prior year. The helm was now called an “Integrated Bridge System Workstation” and the chart table the “Central Navigation Console.” The wheel itself was a glorious affair in mahogany and polished brass, but it was there only because visiting passengers wanted to see it. The helmsman never touched it—LeSeur sometimes wondered if it was even connected. Instead, the helmsman maneuvered the ship using a set of four joysticks, one for each of the propulsion pods, plus a pair controlling the bow thrusters and midthrusters. The main engine power was controlled with a set of jetliner-style throttles. It was more like a super-sophisticated computer game than a traditional bridge.

Below the huge row of windows that stretched from port to starboard, a bank of dozens of computer workstations controlled and relayed information about all aspects of the ship and its environment: engines, fire suppression systems, watertight integrity monitors, communications, weather maps, satellite displays, countless others. There were two chart tables, neatly laid out with nautical charts, which nobody seemed to use.