Текст книги "The Wheel of Darkness"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Nobody except him, that is.

LeSeur glanced at his watch: twenty minutes past midnight. He glanced out through the forward windows. The huge ship’s blaze of light illuminated the black ocean for hundreds of yards on all sides, but the sea itself was so far below—fourteen decks—that if it were not for the deep, slow roll of the vessel they might just as well have been atop a skyscraper. Beyond the circle of light lay dark night, the sea horizon barely discernible. Long ago they had passed the slow pulsing of Falmouth Light, and shortly thereafter Penzance Light. Now, open ocean until New York.

The bridge had been fully manned since the Southampton pilot, who had guided the ship out of the channel, had departed. Overmanned, even. All the deck officers wanted to be part of the first leg of the maiden voyage of the Britannia, the greatest ship ever to grace the seven seas.

Carol Mason, the staff captain, spoke to the officer of the watch in a voice as quiet as the bridge itself. “Current state, Mr. Vigo?” It was a pro forma question—the new marine electronics gave the information in continuous readouts for all to see. But Mason was traditional and, above all, punctilious.

“Under way at twenty-seven knots on a course of two five two true, light traffic, sea state three, wind is light and from the port quarter. There is a tidal stream of just over one knot from the northeast.”

One of the bridge wing lookouts spoke to the officer of the watch. “There’s a ship about four points on the starboard bow, sir.”

LeSeur glanced at the ECDIS and saw the echo.

“Have you got it, Mr. Vigo?” asked Mason.

“I’ve been tracking it, sir. It looks like a ULCC, under way at twenty knots, twelve miles off. On a crossing course.”

There was no sense of alarm. LeSeur knew they were the stand-on ship, the ship with the right of way, and there was plenty of time for the give-way ship to alter course.

“Let me know when it alters, Mr. Vigo.”

“Yes, sir.”

It always sounded odd in LeSeur’s ear to hear a female captain addressed as “sir,” although he knew it was standard protocol both in the navy and in civilian shipboard life. There were, after all, so few female captains.

“Barometer still dropping?” Mason asked.

“Half a point in the last thirty minutes.”

“Very good. Maintain present heading.”

LeSeur shot a private glance at the staff captain. Mason never spoke about her age, but he guessed she was forty, maybe forty-one: it was hard to tell sometimes with people who spent their lives at sea. She was tall and statuesque, and attractive in a competent, no-nonsense kind of way. Her face was slightly flushed—perhaps due to the stress of this being her first voyage as staff captain. Her brown hair was short, and she kept it tucked up beneath her captain’s cap. He watched her move across the bridge, glance at a screen or two here, murmur a word to a member of the bridge crew there. In many ways she was the perfect officer: calm and soft-spoken, not dictatorial or petty, demanding without being bossy. She expected a lot of those under her command, but she herself worked harder than anybody. And she exuded a kind of magnetism of reliability and professionalism you found only in the best officers. The crew was devoted to her, and rightly so.

She wasn’t required on the bridge, and nor was he. But all of them had wanted to be here to share in the first night of the maiden voyage and to watch Mason command. By rights, she should have been the master of the Britannia. What had happened to her had been a shame, a real shame. As if on cue, the door to the bridge opened and Commodore Cutter entered. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed. Frames tensed; faces became rigid. The officer of the watch assumed a studious expression. Only Mason seemed unaffected. She returned to the navigation console, glanced out through the bridge windows, spoke quietly to the helmsman.

Cutter’s role was—at least in theory—largely ceremonial. He was the public face of the ship, the man the passengers looked up to. To be sure, he was still in charge, but on most ocean liners you rarely saw the captain on the bridge. The actual running of the ship was left to the staff captain.

It was beginning to seem that this voyage would be different.

Commodore Cutter stepped forward. He pivoted on one foot, then—hands clasped behind his back—strode along the bridge, first one way, then back, scrutinizing the monitors. He was a short, impressively built man with iron gray hair and a fleshy face, deeply pink even in the subdued light of the bridge. His uniform was never less than immaculate.

“He’s not altering,” said the officer of the watch to Mason. “CPA nine minutes. He’s on a constant bearing, closing range.”

A light tension began to build.

Mason came over and examined the ECDIS. “Radio, hail him on channel 16.”

“Ship on my starboard bow,” the radio engineer said, “ship on my starboard bow, this is the

Britannia

, do you read?”

Unresponsive static.

“Ship on my starboard bow, are you receiving me?”

A silent minute passed. Cutter remained rooted to the bridge, hands behind his back, saying nothing—just watching.

“He’s still not altering,” said the officer of the watch to Mason. “CPA eight minutes and he’s on a collision course.”

LeSeur was uncomfortably aware that the two ships were approaching at a combined speed of forty-four knots—about fifty miles an hour. If the ULCC supertanker didn’t begin to alter course soon, things would get hairy.

Mason hunched over the ECDIS, scrutinizing it. A sudden feeling of alarm swept the bridge. It reminded LeSeur of what one of his officers in the Royal Navy had told him: Sailing is ninety percent boredom and ten percent terror. There was no in-between state. He glanced over at Cutter, whose face was unreadable, and then at Mason, who remained cool.

“What the hell are they doing?” the officer of the watch said.

“Nothing,” said Mason dryly. “That’s the problem.” She stepped forward. “Mr. Vigo, I’ll take the conn for the avoidance maneuver.”

Vigo retired to one side, evident relief on his face.

She turned to the helmsman. “Wheel aport twenty degrees.”

“Aye, wheel aport twenty—”

Suddenly Cutter spoke, interrupting the helmsman’s confirmation of the order. “Captain Mason, we’re the stand-on ship.”

Mason straightened up from the ECDIS. “Yes, sir. But that ULCC has almost zero maneuverability, and it may have passed the point where—”

“

Captain Mason, I repeat:

we are the stand-on ship.

”

There was a tense silence on the bridge. Cutter turned to the helmsman. “Steady on two five two.”

“Aye, sir, steady on two five two.”

LeSeur could see the lights of the tanker on the starboard bow, growing brighter. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead. It was true that they had the clear right of way and that the other ship should give way, but sometimes you had to adjust to reality. They were probably on autopilot and busy with other things. God knows, they might be in the wardroom watching porn flicks or passed out drunk on the floor.

“Sound the whistle,” said Cutter.

The great whistle of the Britannia,audible over fifteen miles, cut like a deep bellow across the night sea. Five blasts—the danger signal. Both bridge lookouts were at their stations, peering ahead with binoculars. The tension grew excruciating.

Cutter leaned into the bridge VHF repeater. “Ship crossing on my starboard bow, this is the

Britannia

. We are the stand-on ship and you must alter. Do you understand?”

The hiss of an empty frequency.

The whistle sounded again. The lights on the ULCC had resolved themselves to individual points. LeSeur could even see the faint bar of light of the tanker’s bridge.

“Captain,” said Mason, “I’m not sure that even if they altered now—”

“CPA four minutes,” said the officer of the watch.

LeSeur thought, with utter disbelief,

Bloody hell, we’re going to collide.

The silence of dread descended on the bridge. The

Britannia

sounded the danger signal again.

“He’s altering to starboard,” said the lookout. “He’s altering, sir!”

The whistle of the ULCC sounded across the water, three short blasts indicating it was backing down in an emergency maneuver.

About frigging time

, thought LeSeur.

“Steady on,” said Cutter.

LeSeur stared at the ECDIS. With excruciating slowness the ARPA vector radar overlay recalculated the ULCC’s heading. With a flood of relief, he realized they were moving out of danger; the ULCC would pass to starboard. There was a palpable relaxation on the bridge, a murmur of voices, a few muttered curses.

Cutter turned to the staff captain, utterly unperturbed. “Captain Mason, may I ask why you reduced speed to twenty-four knots?”

“There’s heavy weather ahead, sir,” Mason replied. “Company standing orders state that on the first night out, passengers are to be acclimated to the open sea by—”

“I know what the standing orders say,” Cutter interrupted. He had a slow, quiet voice that was somehow immeasurably more intimidating than bluster. He turned to the helmsman. “Increase speed to thirty knots.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the helmsman said, his voice dead neutral. “Increasing speed to thirty knots.”

“Mr. Vigo, you may resume the watch.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cutter continued staring at Mason. “Speaking of the standing orders, it has come to my attention that one of the officers of this ship was seen leaving the stateroom of a passenger earlier this evening.”

He paused, letting the moment build.

“Whether or not there was a sexual liaison is irrelevant. We all know the rules regarding fraternization with passengers.”

With his hands behind his back, he made a slow turn, looking into each officer’s face in turn, before ending with Mason.

“May I remind you that this is not the Love Boat. This kind of behavior will not be tolerated. Let the passengers be responsible for their own indiscretions; my crew must not indulge themselves in this way.”

LeSeur was startled to see that the flush on Mason’s face had deepened considerably.

Couldn’t be her,

he thought.

She’s the last one who would break the rules.

The door to the bridge opened and Patrick Kemper, the chief security officer, stepped in. Seeing Cutter, he moved toward him. “Sir, I—”

“Not now,” Cutter said. Kemper stopped, fell silent.

On every large cruise ship LeSeur had served on, the captain’s prime responsibilities were to schmooze with the passengers, preside over long, jolly dinners at the captain’s table, and be the public face of the ship. The staff captain, while nominally second in command, was the chief operating officer. But Cutter had a reputation for disdaining the glad-handing duties, and it appeared he was going to carry this habit into his first captaincy. He was an officer of the old school, a former commodore in the Royal Navy from a titled family, who LeSeur suspected had been advanced somewhat beyond his competencies. A few years before, the captaincy of the Olympiahad gone to Cutter’s most bitter rival, and it had stuck in his craw ever since. He’d pulled strings in high places to get command of the Britannia—which should by rights have gone to Mason—and now his intentions were obvious. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure this maiden voyage was the crossing of his career—including breaking the Olympia’s own fastest crossing, set just the year before. Rough weather would have no effect on him, LeSeur thought grimly, other than to steel his resolve. Cruise ships fled weather; but an ocean liner, a realocean liner, toughed it out.

LeSeur glanced at Mason. She was looking ahead through the forward windows, calm and poised; the only hint of something amiss was the rapidly disappearing flush. So far, through the shakedown cruise and today’s departure, she’d taken the commodore’s heavy– handedness and second-guessing with equanimity and grace. Even being passed over as master of the Britanniaseemed not to have ruffled her feathers. Perhaps she’d gotten used to the high-seas chauvinism and developed a thick skin. The captaincies of the great ships seemed to be one of the last male bastions in the civilized world. She was no doubt aware of the unspoken rule: in the passenger ship business, the so-called teak ceiling remained: no matter how competent, a woman would never make master of one of the great liners.

“Speed under the hull thirty knots, sir,” the helmsman said.

Cutter nodded and turned to the chief security officer. “All right, Mr. Kemper, what is it?”

The small, bulletlike man spoke. Despite his heavy Boston accent and inescapable American-ness, LeSeur thought of Kemper as a kindred soul. Maybe it was because they both came from working-class neighborhoods in port cities on the Atlantic. Kemper had once been a cop, shot a drug dealer who was about to pull the hammer on his partner, become a hero—but left the force anyway. Couldn’t deal with it, apparently. Still, he was a bloody good security officer, even if he did lack self-confidence. LeSeur guessed that lack was one of the by– products of killing a man.

“Captain, we’ve got an issue in casino operations.”

Cutter turned away from Kemper and spoke to the man as if he weren’t there. “Mr. Kemper, the casinos are incidental to the operation of ship. The first officer will handle it.” Without even glancing at LeSeur, he turned to the officer of the watch. “Call me if you need me, Mr. Vigo.” He strode crisply across the bridge and disappeared through the door.

“ ‘This is not the Love Boat,’ ” LeSeur muttered. “What a prig.”

Mason said crisply, but not unkindly, “Commodore Cutter was correct to say what he did.”

“Yes, sir.” LeSeur turned to Kemper with a friendly smile. “All right, Mr. Kemper, let’s hear about the problem in the casino.”

“It seems we got a bunch of card counters working the blackjack tables.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“First Mayfair was down two hundred thousand pounds, and then Covent Garden dropped by a hundred thousand.”

LeSeur felt a slight twinge: this was just the kind of thing that would really steam Corporate. “Did you identify them?”

“Obviously, we know who the winners are, but we don’t know who’s just lucky and who’s counting. They work as a team: players and counters. The counters don’t play—they watch and signal their players. As you know, they’re the brains.”

“I don’t know, actually. Not a coincidence?”

“Not likely. Hentoff’s worried they might be like that team of MIT students a few years back who took Vegas for three million.”

The sick feeling in the pit of LeSeur’s stomach deepened. The Britannia,he knew, wasn’t Las Vegas, where you could give a chap the bum’s rush if you caught him counting cards. These were paying passengers. And passenger ship companies relied heavily on gambling profits: a row in the casino might discourage other passengers from gambling. But something had to be done. A successful maiden voyage into New York with a fanfare of adoring publicity wouldn’t matter a damn to Corporate if there were huge losses in the casino. It was about money—first, last, and always.

“What do you propose we do about it?” he asked.

“Well, sir. There was this . . .” Kemper hesitated. “Thisunusualpassenger. A rich guy who styles himself a private investigator. He’s the one first spotted the card-counting operation. He’s offered to help identify the individuals involved.”

“In return for what?”

“Well, you see . . .” Kemper stammered a moment. “It appears he’s on board to track down an artifact he claims was stolen from a client of his. If we give him some information on his suspects, he’ll help us with the card counters . . .” His voice trailed off.

“For all we know,” said LeSeur briskly, “this might be a coincidence and we’ll be up a hundred thousand pounds in Mayfair by the end of the night. Let’s wait a few more hours, see if the losses continue. Whatever you do, please deal with it quietly. No melodrama.”

“Right, sir.”

LeSeur watched Kemper go. He felt sorry for the guy—and sorry for himself. Good Christ, if only he were back in the Royal Navy, where they didn’t have casinos, card counters, and neurotic passengers.

16

YOU MADE THE BATHWATER TOO HOT AGAIN,” THE ELDERLY WOMAN said, her shrill voice far too loud for the cabin. “And you put in too little bath oil.”

Inge Larssen struggled to help the old woman—who weighed twice what she did—into her nightwear. “Sorry, mum,” she murmured.

“And how many times do I have to tell you?” The hectoring voice went on as the ancient skin, wrinkled and flaccid as a rooster’s wattle, mercifully disappeared beneath layers of silk and cotton. “Leaving dinner tonight, you put my handbag on the right side of my wheelchair. It goes on the left! The

left

!”

“Very well, mum.” Wincing at the tight grip the ancient claw had on her shoulder, Inge handed the old woman her cane. Immediately, she received a painful rap on the knuckles with it. “Stand up straight, girl. Do you want me to take a tumble?”

“No, mum.” Inge looked away as she spoke. Looking at her employer only seemed to incite additional criticism.

“Really, you are the

worst

companion I’ve ever had—and I’ve had more than my share, I can tell you. If you don’t shape up I’ll simply have to let you go.”

“I’m very sorry if I’m not giving satisfaction, mum,” Inge replied.

It was the work of half an hour to get the woman into bed, lift her feet into position and tuck them in, apply lotion to her hands and vanishing cream to her face, comb and pin her hair, and fluff up the pillows just so.

“I don’t want to hear a sound out of you, now,” came the croaking voice. “You know how hard I find it to fall asleep.”

“Very well, mum.”

“And leave the door open. I’m a light sleeper and there’s no telling when I might need you.”

“Very well.” As softly and slowly as she could, Inge crept out of the bedroom and took up her position in a chair just outside, in the living room. It was here that she slept, on the couch. The old woman insisted that her beddings be put away first thing in the morning and not brought out until late at night; it seemed to annoy her that Inge had to sleep as well.

She waited, barely daring to breathe, while the old lady muttered and murmured fretfully. Gradually, the sounds died away and the breathing became more regular. Inge sat listening until the loud snoring began, as it always did: despite what the crone said, she was the heaviest of sleepers and never woke up during the night.

Now, very carefully, Inge rose from her chair and moved stealthily past the open bedroom door. The snoring continued unabated. Moving to the entryway, she passed a mirror, and stopped just a moment to make sure she was presentable. A serious young woman with straight blonde hair and sad, almost frightened eyes looked back. She ran a quick hand over her hair. Then, moving to the front door of the suite, she opened it cautiously and exited out into the hall.

She walked down the elegant carpeted corridor, feeling better almost immediately. It was like a dark mist disappearing in the heat of the sun. Reaching the central stairway, she made her way down to the public levels of the ship. It was so much cheerier here: people chatted, laughed. More than one man smiled at her as she walked past the shops, cafés, and wine bars: although shy and a little awkward, Inge was attractive, and her Swedish heritage was unmistakable.

She had been working for the old woman for two months now, and it was unlike anything she had anticipated. Orphaned at an early age, she had led a sheltered childhood, growing up in convent schools. When it was time to find a job, she had secured a position as a ladies’ companion through an agency that was affiliated with the convent. It seemed perfect. Her spoken English was impeccable, and the school provided her with excellent references. She had no place to live, and being a companion would provide both room and board. And better yet, traveling with a wealthy lady would allow her to see the outside world she had daydreamed about so often.

But the reality could not have been more different. Her employer was critical of her every move; Inge couldn’t think of a single word of praise she had been given. While she was awake, the old woman required constant attendance and demanded that her every whim be carried out instantly. Inge was not allowed to leave her side. It was like being in prison—with a two-year sentence, based on the contract she’d signed. Her only freedom came late at night, when the woman slept. And she always woke at dawn, querulous and demanding.

Inge wandered through the elegant spaces, drinking in the music, the conversation, the sights and smells. She had a rich imagination—her daydreams were her only escape—but the Britannia, at least, lived up to all her hopes. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She stopped outside a grand casino, peering in at the wealthy and powerful as they gambled and carried on in their finery. Seeing such sights made her forget the living hell she endured by day.

She lingered in the doorway a few moments more. Then she roused herself and moved on. It was late now, very late, and she needed to get some sleep herself—the old lady did not allow her to nap or take any breaks. But she would come here again tomorrow night, soaking up the sights—sights to fuel the dreams and fancies that, in turn, would help her make it through the days to come. Dreams of the day when she too could travel in such luxury and elegance, unfettered by poverty or cruelty, when she would have a husband and a closet full of beautiful clothes. And no matter how wealthy she became, she would always speak softly to her servants and treat them with kindness, remembering that they, too, were human beings.

17

SPECIAL AGENT PENDERGAST GLIDED SILENTLY THROUGH THE opulent public spaces of the Britannia, his silver eyes taking in every possible detail, fixing the layout of the ship in his mind. He had been walking for almost three hours now, through salons and spas and restaurants and pubs and casinos and arcades and vast echoing theaters. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, he blended in with the tuxedo-clad crowds and was conspicuous mainly for his blond-white hair and pallid complexion.

He knew his target was awake and about. At 4 A.M. he finally found him, strolling aimlessly along Deck 7, the highest of the public decks, threading his way through a maze of lounges and galleries, heading amidships. Directly over their heads were close to eleven hundred passenger compartments. In order to earn back the enormous cost of building such a huge and heavily framed vessel, North Star had cut back on single cabins and made all of the seaward passenger accommodations into spacious—and expensive—stateroom suites with private balconies. The balconies required that the staterooms be placed as high in the ship’s superstructure as possible, far above the spume-heavy waterline, thus forcing the public spaces into the lower decks.

The crowds had thinned. The ship was rolling ponderously, deep slow rolls that took several minutes to complete. They were coming from a storm center far to the east. It was quite possible that many of the passengers were regretting the expansive dinners they had enjoyed earlier in the evening. His target appeared to be one of them.

Pendergast paused as he consulted a fold-out map of the ship, now covered with neat annotations of his own. He looked around and saw what he was looking for: a hatchway leading to the promenade deck. Although other levels of the Britanniahad external patios, public balconies, and pool decks, only Deck 7 had a promenade that encircled the entire vessel. And sure enough, there went his target: the man was opening the hatch and stepping out into the open air.

At the door, Pendergast took a swig of bourbon from a silver hip flask, let it linger briefly in his mouth, then swallowed it, opened the door, and slipped through. He found himself in what seemed like the teeth of a gale. The wind blasted him full in the face, pulling his tie from beneath his jacket and whipping it out behind him. Even though he was eight levels above the surface of the ocean, the air was full of atomized spray. It took him a moment to realize this wasn’t entirely due to the approaching storm; the ship was moving at over thirty miles an hour, which even on a windless sea created its own gale on any exposed deck. It was as the first officer, LeSeur, had said: A cruise ship will run away from a storm. We don’t divert—we just plough right through.

He saw his target standing at the rail about fifty yards off, in the lee. Pendergast strode forward, his hand raised in jovial greeting.

“Jason? Jason

Lambe

?”

The man turned. “What?” His face looked green.

Pendergast surged toward him, seized his hand. “By God, it isyou! I thought I recognized you at dinner! How the hell are you?” He pumped his hand, clasping the man’s left in an enthusiastic greeting, drawing him close.

“Uh, fine.” Jason Lambe did not look at all fine. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”

“Pendergast! Aloysius Pendergast! P.S. 84, Riverdale!” Pendergast clapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, gave an affectionate squeeze while breathing heavily in his face, giving him a good dose of bourbon-breath. Lambe seemed to freeze, flinching and making an effort to disentangle himself from the obnoxious, clinging embrace.

“I don’t remember any Pendergast,” he said dubiously.

“Come on! Jason, think back to the old days! Glee club, varsity basketball!” Another squeeze, harder this time.

Lambe had had enough. With a strenuous effort, he tried to twist from the agent’s limpet-like grasp.

“Getting senile in your old age, Jason?” Pendergast gave Lambe’s upper arm an affectionate grope.

Lambe finally wrenched himself free, shook off his hand, and took a step back. “Look, Pendergast, why don’t you head back to your cabin and sober up? I don’t have the slightest idea who you are.”

“Is that any way to treat an old buddy?” Pendergast whined.

“Let me make it even plainer. Fuck off, pal.” Lambe brushed past him and headed back inside, still looking seasick.

Pendergast leaned on the rail, shaking briefly with silent mirth. After a moment he straightened up, cleared his throat, adjusted his suit and tie, wiped his hands with a silk hankie, and, with a disdainful frown, dusted himself off with a few flicks of his manicured fingers. He then took a stroll around the deck. The rolling motion of the ship was still more pronounced, and he bent into the wind as he headed forward, one hand on the rail.

He glanced overhead at the rows of balconies above him, all empty. It seemed a supreme irony: the bulk of the Britannia’s passengers paid a hefty premium to obtain a balconied suite, but because of the extraordinary speed of the ship they were next to impossible to use.

It was the work of almost ten minutes to stroll the length of the ship. At last he paused in the relative calm of the stern. He walked to the rail and looked out over the roiling wakes: four lines of white froth subsumed into an angry ocean. The spray and spume raised by the wind and sea had started to congeal into a light mist, wrapping the ship in an eerie, damp shroud.

The ship’s horn gave a mournful blast and Pendergast turned, leaning thoughtfully against the rail. On the decks above him, twenty-seven hundred passengers were housed in luxurious surroundings. And far below his feet, in the deep spaces below the waterline, were the quarters of the sixteen hundred men and women whose job it was to cater to those passengers’ every whim.

Over four thousand people—and among them was a bizarre murderer and the mysterious object he had killed to possess.

In the shelter of the lee, Pendergast removed the list from his pocket, slipped out a fountain pen, and slowly drew a line through the name of Jason Lambe. His assessment of the man’s physical condition—which he had examined rather thoroughly under the pretext of the drunken reunion—assured him that Lambe’s sticklike arms and puny frame could not have overwhelmed Ambrose, let alone committed an act of such savage violence.

Six more to go.

The horn sounded again. As it did, Pendergast paused. Then he straightened up, listening intently. For an instant, he thought he had heard another cry, superimposed over the shriek of the horn. He waited, listening, for several minutes. But there was nothing save the rushing of the wind. Wrapping his dinner jacket tightly around himself, he made his way toward the entrance hatchway and the welcoming warmth of the ship. It was time to retire for the night.

18

ADIRTY SUN STRUGGLED UP THROUGH THE MISTS LYING ON THE eastern horizon, the watery rays of dawn flooding the ship with yellow light. First officer Gordon LeSeur stepped out of the Admiral’s Club and walked down the plushly carpeted starboard corridor of Deck 10. A few passengers were standing at the elevator bank and he greeted them good morning with a cheerful hello. They nodded back, looking a little green around the gills. LeSeur, who had not been seasick in over twenty years, tried to feel sympathetic but found it difficult. When passengers got seasick, they got cranky. And this morning they were bloody cranky.

For a brief moment, he indulged himself in nostalgia for the Royal Navy. Normally a cheerful, easygoing bloke, he was getting weary of the flashy cruise ship lifestyle—especially the antics of spoiled passengers desperate to “get their money’s worth,” indulging themselves in an orgy of eating and drinking, gambling and bonking. And these American passengers always made the same asinine comment about him looking like Paul McCartney. Wanting to know if he was related to Paul McCartney. He was no more related to McCartney than Queen Elizabeth was related to her corgis. Perhaps he should have followed his father’s footsteps into the merchant marine. Then he could be working on a nice, quiet, and blessedly passenger-free VLCC.

He smiled ruefully to himself. What was wrong with him? It was way too early in the crossing to start having thoughts like these.

As he continued sternward, he pulled a radio from its holster, set to the ship’s frequency, and pressed the transmit button. “Suite 1046, right?”