The Consignment (18 page)

“I’m sorry about your wife.”

I didn’t reply. She gave it a moment, then she said good-night, and I said good-night. I lay still for twenty minutes, my cheek cupped in my hand, then I said her name. Rita didn’t answer. She was asleep.

I rolled onto my back, staring into the dark, wide awake. When I was done thinking about Fiona, I thought about the electronic beacons I’d planted in the Haplon containers. They were already transmitting to the Defense Department’s mid-Atlantic satellite. They were powerful transmitters, beaming over Defense spectrum, and their signals, unlike our cell phones’, would get through. Channon would know by now that the Haplon materiel was on its way, cruising toward whatever form of destruction he determined appropriate. What he didn’t know was that Rita and I were lying alongside the materiel, helpless.

In the solid darkness of the hold, I could imagine everything very clearly. Navy jets speeding like bullets, screaming over the waves. A radio warning to the captain and crew. Guidance systems locking on to us as the ship was abandoned. Smart bombs lasering death from the sky.

CHAPTER 23

I dreamed I was in a silo full of wheat. A chute opened above me and tons of grain came pouring down until I was drowning in it, fighting for air, and I thrashed upward, burst through to the surface, and opened my eyes. Rita was there, sitting up, watching the door. I coughed and picked up the cherry jar and tipped some syrup down my throat. I covered my eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Listen,” she said.

I listened. All I could hear were the engines.

“There was another noise,” she insisted. “It’s gone now, but I’m sure someone was trying the door.” I shook myself awake, went over and put my ear to the door. Humming engines. When I glanced back at Rita, she said, “I’m sure I did.” She unzipped the sleeping bag and reached for her skirt and blouse.

I put my ear to the door again. Nothing.

“They’ll be back,” she said.

“Maybe it was a sound from the engine room.”

“It was the door.” When I looked doubtful, she got mad. “Do I look crazy? It was the goddamn door.”

I wandered over to the Haplon containers. Rita buttoned her blouse, then went and watched the door handle. I withdrew behind the Haplon containers and took a leak. “Any inspiration strike in the night?” I called, zipping up.

“Hush!”

As I stepped out from behind the container, Rita turned sharply. She made a face and pointed to the door. The wheel handle turned a few degrees, then the lights suddenly went out.

“Ned?” said Rita.

“Stay still.”

I peered into the dark. The door hadn’t opened. I figured there must have been a switch outside. Then a slim frame of light appeared as the door slowly opened, and I stepped back behind the container. There were voices, some talk in Ukrainian, then the hold lights came on again. I could see Rita from where I was, but not the door. When the Ukrainian voices died away, she spread her arms. No holster. No pistol.

“Yeah, you locked me in this goddamn hold, you morons. I’m a U.S. Customs officer, and I want to see your captain.”

“How are you here?” I recognized the gruff voice, it was the ship’s mate.

“I’m here because you locked me in here. Now get me out of here, and take me to the captain.”

“You are illegal.”

“Listen, bozo. You take me to your captain or I’ll make sure this ship and every member of its crew are prohibited reentry into U.S. waters. How do you think the captain’ll like that?”

There was more talk in Ukrainian, then the mate asked, “Where is the other?”

“What other?” Rita said, but I’d heard enough.

I stepped out from between the containers, my arms spread wide. The mate had four crewmen with him. “You knew there were two of us,” I said.

He looked from me up to the tower of cherry boxes on the container behind me, then one of the crewmen pointed to the broken loads on the pallets. They started talking angrily, it was going to cost them plenty of hard work to put the cargo right. At last the mate looked down at the sacks of grain near his feet, and the sleeping bag.

“Two beds,” he said, looking up at me. “Two beds, two people.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “You knew there were two of us before you opened the door.”

He shrugged like he didn’t give a damn. He ordered two of the crew on ahead, and gestured for Rita and me to follow.

Under escort, we passed through the living quarters and up onto the deck. The morning sun was dazzling, the light sparkling like diamonds on the sea, and I squinted and covered my eyes. Sea in every direction. We were out of the hold, but we were still in plenty of trouble. If the captain decided we were a problem he didn’t need, there wasn’t much to stop him from doing whatever he liked with us. I stayed close to Rita as the mate led us up to the bridge.

The bridge floor was laid with ridged rubber, worn near the doorways. Wood paneling, cracked and faded by the sun, ran around the bridge waist-high. There was one guy at the wheel. Behind him, a smaller guy locked some scrolled charts into a cabinet.

“Our stowaways,” said the smaller guy, pocketing his key as he turned to face us. The captain.

“My name’s Durranti,” said Rita, stepping forward. “I’m a U.S. Customs officer.”

“You have no permission to be on my ship.”

“Getting permission’s a tad difficult when I’ve been trapped in your hold.”

He asked to see her papers. Rita flashed her ID, but when she returned the wallet to her pocket, the captain extended his hand. She gave him the wallet reluctantly. “You?” he said, lifting his chin in my direction. I gave him my wallet, explaining that I wasn’t from Customs, that I was a representative for the consignee of some of his cargo.

“Officer Durranti came aboard at my request,” I told him.

“Your request.” He studied my Amex card, then lifted his eyes to me. “Are you the captain now?”

“I was concerned about our cargo.”

“Did you contact the stevedore?”

“You knew we were in that damn hold when you sailed.”

Rita raised her hand, then addressed the captain. “Nobody’s blaming anyone. An error’s been made, okay? Now I just need to contact my colleagues. After that you can put into the nearest U.S. port, we’ll get off your ship.”

“Our next port is in West Africa.”

“The Coast Guard can fetch us.”

“We are outside U.S. waters.”

“I don’t care if we’re halfway to the South Pole. I want to use your radio. If you deny me that, I guarantee you will never sail a vessel into a U.S. port ever again. Are we communicating here, Captain?”

The threat didn’t faze him. He considered it a moment, then spoke to the mate for a minute in Ukrainian. When he next spoke to Rita, the captain’s tone was more conciliatory. He agreed that a terrible error seemed to have been made.

“Our communications officer is using the radio. In one hour, he is free.” He gestured to the mate. “Mr. Bosnitch will take you to a cabin. If you are hungry, there is food. Also a shower.” He returned our wallets, then finally introduced himself. “Gregor Damienenko.” He shook Rita’s hand, then mine.

“We can use the radio?” Rita asked, not sure she’d understood.

He told her yes, that she could use the radio in an hour. Then he dismissed us.

The mate, Bosnitch, showed us down to a cabin. It wasn’t much of a cabin. It was a cubicle with an upper and lower bunk, and floor space of about eight by three. Bosnitch pointed out the shower and the heads along the passage. The galley and mess room, he told us, were one flight down. When he left us, I put my head out the door and watched him disappear aft. Then I closed the door.

“Do you get this?” Rita frowned. “They knew we were down there. Those guys Bosnitch brought down with him, they were there in case we made trouble. Now we’re out, and suddenly we can use the radio?”

“You threatened him,” I said. “Maybe that did it.”

She didn’t buy that. She went to the porthole and looked out at the endless expanse of blue. “I don’t get it.”

“Maybe he thinks we’re in the wrong.”

She spun around. “Is that a joke? We spent a night in their stinking hold. Damienenko says we’re not even in U.S. waters anymore. We’ve been shanghaied, for crying out loud.”

“All Damienenko did was close the hold, then sail.”

“He knew we were down there.”

“We can’t prove that.”

“Then he just lets us out and suddenly we can use the radio?”

Like Rita, I could see that it didn’t add up. “Trevanian?” I suggested.

She made a face. “You didn’t actually see Trevanian at Rossiter’s apartment, and you only thought you saw him on the ship. You’ve got Trevanian on the brain.”

“I saw him.”

“Okay. So why did Trevanian tell Damienenko to let us out?”

“No idea.”

“Right. And why didn’t you mention to Damienenko that he’s freighting stolen property?”

“Because he might not know that,” I said. “And I’m not going to tell him what he doesn’t know. He’s a gunrunner, but I don’t think he’d knowingly get involved in a heist from a U.S. company. Not when he’s driving the slowest getaway vehicle on record.” I told her my guess hadn’t changed. Trevanian stole the bill of lading and presented it as his own. Damienenko shipped out with us in the hold because of the switched tags.

“But I can report the switch now, on the radio,” she said.

“You never said anything about it just now up on the bridge. Maybe he’s betting you didn’t notice the switch.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Say he listens in to your call. When he hears something he doesn’t like, he can just shut you down.”

Rita sat on the bottom bunk and buried her head in her hands. At last she said, “You don’t have the faintest idea what’s going on with this deal.” I made a sound. She looked up. “It wasn’t a criticism. You don’t know why Dimitri was killed either, do you?” It sounded like she’d only just figured that out. I looked at her curiously. She pushed her fingers up through her dark hair. “At least we’ve learned something useful from this fiasco.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I’m talking about you. You and Dimitri. This whole damn deal. I’m talking about not totally believing you and Channon. Not since Dimitri started jerking me around.”

“I’m not Dimitri.”

“You’re the other half of the same operation. You were brother officers. Let’s just say I found it a little hard to believe you were as ignorant about what he was up to as you claimed.”

“You didn’t trust me?”

“I didn’t trust what you were telling me.”

I turned that over. I felt a sudden chill in my spine.

“Have you tapped into any of my private conversations?”

“No.”

“Any of my conversations?”

“I don’t want to discuss this.”

“Rita.” I stepped forward. “Whatever you did, it was a professional call. I’m a grown-up. So tell me. What did you do when you figured you couldn’t trust me?”

She lowered her eyes, and touched her forehead. “It wasn’t just you. We did it with Dimitri too.” I waited. Finally she dropped her hand and looked at me. “We got undercover Customs agents into Fettners and Haplon.” I reeled back. I asked her who. “Does it matter?” she said. I stared at her. “Baker,” she said finally.

“Micky Baker?” Our new marketing grad. I couldn’t believe it.

“We owe you an apology too. That break-in out at your house.”

I missed a beat. “You?”

“Micky Baker. Going a million miles over the line. For which he was severely reprimanded.” I was speechless with surprise and, after a moment’s thought, with real anger. I was suddenly unsure of my place in the intrigue. Fiona had employed someone to spy on me. And so, I now learned, had Rita. She opened her hands in apology. “Like you said,” she told me. “It was a professional call.”

I nodded, my jaw clenched tight. Then I snatched a towel off the top bunk and walked out.

By the time the communications officer came, I’d showered, had a breakfast of toast and salted pork, and generally simmered down. Rita had returned from the ship’s mess with two clean white shirts from the ship’s laundry, courtesy of the cook, she’d given one of them to me as a peace offering. Though I’d accepted it, the atmosphere in our cabin remained somewhat frosty.

“Rourke?” said the officer, looking into our cabin. “Your call is connected.”

“What call?”

“You will come?”

I looked from him to Rita, who shrugged. Then I got off my bunk and went to the door. When Rita tried to follow, the guy told her to wait in the cabin. The communications room, he said, was too small for all of us.

Small was generous. The room, when I got there, was tiny, not much more than a large cabinet leading off the bridge. On the way up, I’d asked several times what the call was about, who it was from, but the officer hadn’t answered. Now he sat on his stool in front of a narrow wall of electronics and passed me the handset. The door was latched open, Captain Damienenko was standing within earshot on the bridge.

“Rourke,” I said, lifting the handset. There was static down the line. “This is Ned Rourke speaking.”

“What in the name of Christ are you doing on that goddamn ship?”

“Who is this?”

“You a grown-up sales manager or a fucking crazy kid? I’m tryin’ to run a business back here.”

I was dumbstruck. “Milton?”

“I’ve had Customs all over me, they’ve lost some woman. Now Trevanian tells me she’s with you.” Milton Rossiter was alive, and somewhere out there on the far side of irate. “How soon can you get your ass back here?”

“Are you okay?”

“ ’Course I’m okay, except for losing my fucking sales manager.”

I missed a beat. “Trevanian told you I was on the ship?”

“He contacted the captain—delivery of the materiel or somethin’. The captain mentioned you and the woman, so Trevanian called me.” He paused. “So when are you back here?”

I was lost. Not only was Rossiter alive, he was talking with Trevanian. I turned my back on the communications officer, away from the open door to the bridge. I lowered my voice. “How about you tell me what’s going on, Milton. Because the way I read this, Trevanian stole the bill of lading. The materiel’s not his.”

“It’s his, okay? The man’s paid the money.”

“That’s not how it looked at your apartment yesterday.”

“Well, here’s the bulletin. That’s how it looks this mornin’.”

“Milton—”

“I don’t wanna hear history, Ned. The money’s in our account. Let it alone and I might even forget that you broke into my apartment.”

“I was trying to save your ass.”

“When I need it saved, I’ll tell you.”

“Where’d Trevanian get the money?”

“Maybe they sold the diamonds. Maybe his client coughed up.” Rossiter hesitated. “Hey, are you alone there?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s terminate this subject right here. So. Where can you get yourself off the ship? You got plastic, or you need me to wire you some money?”

He wasn’t thrilled when I told him it looked like I’d be going all the way to Africa. We talked some more, and in a rare moment of sympathy he volunteered to call Fiona. After thinking about it, I declined the offer. With access to the ship’s radio, I could call her myself. There were a whole lot of questions I wanted to ask Rossiter, but he wasn’t keen to continue the conversation. He fended off a few questions, then said he was going to hang up, but before he could, I asked, “Did you get hurt yesterday?”