Cooks Overboard (4 page)

“Sven! You bastard, I’ve been looking for you all night.”

He cringed. The Hydra. He wished she were dead.

He was curled up on a deck chair, covered by a blanket. He no longer felt nauseous; instead the pains in his stomach were so bad he couldn’t even drink water. His legs and arms had turned almost numb, and now this monster was yelling at him. He’d thought he’d be safe from her up here on the bridge deck. Passengers came up here only to watch the freighter sail into and out of harbors, but their next stop wasn’t until Cabo San Lucas. “I’m trying to get a little peace and quiet,” he whispered. It hurt to talk. “I’m sick. And sick of everyone hassling me.”

“And I’m sick of you and your whining.” Her contorted face pressed close to his. If he’d brought a knife, she’d be fish food.

“Give me the microfilm and be quick about it,” she demanded. “I don’t want anyone to see us together.”

The microfilm. That was all she cared about. Not him, not his illness. “I can’t.”

“Now what? What did you do with it, you fool? I swear you’ll never work for me again. Do you hear me?”

He rubbed his forehead. The microfilm was in his pocket. He could give it to her and be done with her and her temper. But then she’d win and he’d lose. “I wasn’t able to go get it yet. I’ve been too sick.”

“I don’t believe this! Sometimes I wonder why I bother with you at all. You are so worthless.” She paced around. “Listen, too many other crewmen will be milling around your quarters this time of night. I’d better not go with you to get it. The first chance you get, I want you to bring it to the galley. Anyone can go in there day or night for a soft drink or a snack, so it won’t look suspicious. I’ll be waiting for you, but if I’m not there for some reason—or if someone else is and you can’t pass it to me—put it in an open sack of sugar.”

“Sugar?”

“No, wait—if any water or perspiration got on it, it might get sticky, and that might ruin it.”

“I don’t want to be around food.” He groaned.

“I’ve got it. Put it in a tin of baking powder. It’ll stay dry, and no one will pick it up and use it by chance. I don’t think we have anyone who’ll want to bake while on board.”

“I’m too sick.” He started to lie down again. “I can’t go down there.”

She grabbed his shirt with both hands and yanked him upright, her face only inches from his. “Your cabin is down there! If you didn’t leave the microfilm—” She stopped and looked around. She must have realized how loud her voice had become. “If you hadn’t left it in your cabin, none of this would have happened! You’ll go to your cabin, get the microfilm, and bring it to the galley. If I’m not there, put it in the open tin of baking powder. Is that clear?”

He nodded sullenly, unwilling to let her see his fear.

“Do it tonight,” she ordered.

A stabbing pain hit his stomach so fiercely he doubled over, clutching it and moaning. She let go of him and jumped back, as if afraid he’d contaminate her.

“Remember—baking powder. Hide it in the baking powder.”

“I heard you.” He could barely speak.

“And hurry up! I don’t want you to die before you’ve put it where I can find it.” She headed for the stairs.

“Slut,” he murmured as he watched her go.

In her cabin, Angie took a bottle of vintage port and two stemmed glasses from a padded and lined wine-bottle carrying case she’d bought in the Napa Valley. She’d been warned ahead of time by her cousin Sebastian that on a freighter
everything was bare bones and generic, so if you wanted any special treats, you had to bring them yourself. She had brought a bottle of white wine, one of a vintage port, and one of champagne, plus fancy stemmed glasses to drink them out of. She had planned to spend some romantic evenings with Paavo on this cruise, even if she had to set them up herself. But now they had a big reason to celebrate.

She was sure she’d get used to Paavo the civilian, smiling and friendly around strangers, rather than Paavo the cop, who was constantly serious and cautious. The change was a shock to her, but a welcome one.

She put on a heavy jacket, as did Paavo, and, leaving everything else behind, they carried the port and the glasses from the cabin down the hallway to the small outdoor area on the fourth deck.

As she stepped out the door, she saw the blond steward leaning heavily against the rail.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, then, swaying slightly, headed for the door she and Paavo had just stepped through. He seemed to have trouble finding the door handle, but he finally made it into the hallway.

Frowning, Angie stared after him a moment. When he didn’t come back out, she guessed he was all right. Being ill, he must have decided to take the slow elevator to his room instead of the stairs, the way most people did.

Turning her thoughts from the sick man, she
poured some port into each glass, then handed one to Paavo.

“
Salute
,” she said.

“To us,” Paavo responded. “And to our future,” he added meaningfully.

They clinked their glasses together, her gaze locking with his as she took her first sip. Los Angeles might have been out there somewhere, but she couldn’t see it and didn’t even care to search. All she cared to look at was before her.

Moments later, the door to the deckhouse banged open and, wraithlike, Sven Ingerson appeared. He was gasping for breath and his face had a greenish tinge. “I can’t….”

They ran over to him, each taking an arm. “You need to sit down,” Angie said.

“No. My cabin…” Ingerson swayed slightly as he rubbed his forehead. He seemed to have trouble focusing. “I did…powder…powder…I can’t…”

“Powder? Medicine? Is that it?” Paavo asked. “Do you need some medicine?”

“Yes, medi…God, my head!”

“Angie, let’s get him to the chair,” Paavo said, leading Sven toward the chairs they had been using.

“No!” He lunged for the railing, clutching it tightly as he started mumbling incoherently—but it was probably Norwegian, because it didn’t make any sense at all.

“He needs a hospital,” Angie said, now really worried about him. He seemed out of his head.

“No! No hospital,” he cried, leaning over the railing, pushing it hard against his stomach.

“Let’s get him away from this railing,” Paavo said, “then I’ll go get help.”

Angie nodded. “Please,” she said gently to Sven, trying not to upset him any further. “Let me help you to the chair. You need to sit. Or, even better, you can lie down in our cabin. It’s just down the hall.”

“No, no, no. Mr. Reliable. Tell them…” Then he cried out in pain and dropped at her feet.

“My God!” Angie cried.

Paavo swiftly kneeled at the man’s side and lifted his eyelids. “He’s passed out. Go find the captain or first mate quick.” He began loosening Sven’s collar.

Angie ran up the stairs toward the bridge deck, where she hoped to find someone in charge. As she reached the sixth deck, she saw Julio at the top of the stairs. “Julio! Thank God! Get help. Mr. Ingerson, the steward, just passed out. He’s on the fourth deck.”

Julio ran down the flight of stairs and grabbed her hand. “Never fear,
señorita
. I will find someone for you.” He turned, stumbled over a post that held up the stair railing, then ran back upstairs to the bridge and pilot house.

In no time, Captain Olafson burst out of the pilot house and hurried down the stairs. Angie directed him to the fourth deck. Other crewmen, drawn by the commotion, had already gathered. Olafson’s eyes widened when he saw
Paavo bending over the steward. He turned back to Angie who had followed behind him. “What’s wrong with him?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Angie said.

He stepped a bit closer to Paavo, giving a cursory glance at the unmoving steward. “How is he?”

“Scarcely breathing,” Paavo said, “and burning up with fever. He needs a doctor.”

The captain backed up. “Do you think it’s contagious?”

Mr. Johansen, the first mate, ran over to them and knelt at Ingerson’s side with a medical kit.

“I’m a trained medic,” he announced. “I can handle this.” But he soon realized he could do nothing to help the steward but apply cold compresses. “We’ll have to dock,” he said to Captain Olafson.

“But we can’t.” Olafson was wringing his hands.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Angie asked. “The man needs help.”

“We’re foreign registry. We can only dock once at a U.S. port between foreign ports—that’s U.S. law.”

“We have no choice,” Johansen said. “We’ve got a serious medical emergency.” He ordered two of the crewmen to carry Ingerson to his cabin, then turned back to the captain. “You’ve got to get on the radio and explain to Long Beach that we need to come into port. The man might die otherwise.”

Olafson, now also looking pale and shaky, most likely because of the thought of dealing with U.S. authorities, began nodding moments before the word “
ja
” emerged reluctantly from his lips.

As the officers went up to the bridge, and the other crewmen dispersed, Angie and Paavo were left alone on the deck once more.

“If there’s any problem with the port authorities letting the ship dock,” Angie said, “maybe you could contact the LAPD and get some names of higher-ups to talk to. Sometimes a little political clout is needed in cases like this.”

Paavo frowned as he stood at the rail and stared at the night lights of Los Angeles, a whitish glow on the horizon. He took a deep breath. As he exhaled, his frown disappeared and a small smile formed. “No need, Angie. I’m sure the captain will take care of everything.”

That answer was nothing like Paavo. In times of trouble, or when people were in need of help, he was always there doing his best. “But what if he can’t?” Angie said. “The captain’s got the spine of a jellyfish. And besides, who knows what’s wrong with Ingerson!”

“It’s none of our business, Angie. No one else is stepping in. The Neblars and Cockburns are probably already asleep. That’s what we should be doing—sleeping.”

Sleep? When a man was sick? Maybe dying? This blasé, uninterested person was not Paavo.

“What if the captain was right and he’s conta
gious?” she asked, not about to give up. Then a new thought came to her—one she was sure would ignite Paavo’s curiosity. “What if whatever is wrong with him is something the cook knew about, and that’s why he wanted off the ship?”

He leaned back against the rail, his tone one of relaxed insouciance. “If anything’s wrong, the proper authorities will take care of it. Johansen is clearly a man who can take charge and see that whatever’s necessary is done. It doesn’t concern us, Angie.” He smiled again. “We’re on vacation.”

The Hydra sneaked into the galley and tiptoed over to the baking powder. She wanted the microfilm safely in her possession before anything else strange happened on this ship. There was something about this trip that was making her nervous.

She reached for an open tin of baking powder and dug around in it, expecting to easily find the microfilm. She didn’t. She dumped the contents onto the counter and spread it around. No microfilm.

She reached for a box of baking soda. What did Sven know about cooking, anyway? To him, they were probably the same.

But it didn’t contain the microfilm either.

Before long, she’d pulled every open box, tin, and sack of flour, sugar, oatmeal, salt, spices, and even corn flakes off the shelf, dumped their contents onto the counter, and sifted through
them. The microfilm still wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

Her face and arms were covered with flour. She dumped the open food into garbage bags, then took a dish cloth and wiped off any traces from herself.

She was furious. So furious she couldn’t think of anything except emptying an automatic into Sven Ingerson’s lying, lazy body. Where in the hell had he put the microfilm? It wasn’t that small. Not a microdot, thank God, which could have been anywhere. She’d told the professor to leave the film about a half inch in size—small enough to easily hide, but not lose.

So much for planning.

If it wasn’t in the galley, it must still be in Ingerson’s quarters.

Or…he had been on the fourth deck when he passed out. Angie Amalfi’s room was on the fourth deck. Ingerson liked her.

No, she decided. He wouldn’t have dared.

Just below the Tropic of Cancer, high in the mountains overlooking Mazatlán, on the Pacific coast of Mexico, a high pink wall snaked around a compound, topped by electrified barbed wire and circled by a wide treeless swathe patrolled by surveillance cameras.

Inside the compound, a hacienda sprawled like a fleshy hand clutching the mountainous perch. Its walls were adobe and rock from the hillside, too thick to be penetrated by any bullet.

Each room of the hacienda was crammed with lavish yet gaudy furniture. In the massive living room the amount of gilt and brocade was blinding. Replicas of famous artworks covered the walls. Even the bulletproof glass windows that looked out over the mountains to the jungle far away were adorned with tasseled gold-and-red velvet draperies.

Gazing out of those windows at the moonlit sky was a man with wavy black hair, graying at the temples. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and black cotton slacks. A dab of blood from where he had cut himself shaving that morning stained the unbuttoned shirt collar. He was tall and barrel-chested, and stood with his shoulders squared, his chin high.

“I am at peace here,
amigo
,” Colonel Hector Ortega announced, his eyes never leaving the view. “I feel like God has reached down and touched this house, this land, for me alone. Here, finally, all I have worked for throughout my life, all I have wanted to achieve, will be mine.” He turned and smiled, his long, thick-jowled, and baggy-eyed face suddenly soft and wistful.

His friend and confidant, Eduardo Catalán, nearly choked on his scotch and water. “Yes, my colonel,” he said, struggling to talk despite the burning in his throat. “Everything will be most splendid for you.”

Catalán was as tall as the colonel, but thin and wiry where the colonel was round and sluggish. Even his gray hair was wiry; he kept it closely cropped in a stylish razor cut. His gray silk suit was handmade on Savile Row, his white shirt and tie Dior, and his shoes Gucci. He tugged at his slacks as he crossed one leg over the other.

Ortega lifted his head even higher, one hand fisted and pressed against the back of his waist
as he strutted before the glass-covered wall. As if he were a real colonel, Eduardo thought, drinking more scotch to kill the ever-bitter taste in his mouth.

The colonel stopped before a statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner of the room and lit the votive candle in front of it. “This is to light the way for the woman who is bringing me my dream, even as we speak.” His eyes were bright as they again faced Eduardo. “The ship has sailed now. What she brings me is worth more than anyone could imagine, even in their wildest dreams. Only a handful of us know it exists. But soon, the whole world will know. And it will be mine.”

He peered hard at Eduardo. “Then my enemies will discover, finally, just how small and stupid they truly were. Everyone else will realize as well, which will be the ultimate revenge. They blocked my promotion to general when I deserved to be one! Everyone said so! But they stopped me. Soon, though, they will all come groveling at my feet.”

He took out a cigar and carefully cut off the tip, tamping the tobacco, before putting it to his lips and lighting it.

“
Generale?
Hah! I spit on their offer! I will be bigger than that. Bigger than
el presidente
. I will be the one who tells
el presidente
what to do.”

“Yes, my colonel,” Eduardo said, making sure he sounded undeniably sincere.