1 Shore Excursion (25 page)

T
he Internet café in the Gamla Stan, or Old Town, was packed, but as soon as a terminal opened up, I got busy.
Thirty minutes and as many euros later, the searc
h engines finally popped up
some answers.

I gathered my
notes
, stuffed
them
in my bag and headed for the main square and coffee.

The streets were crowded with tourists and morning shoppers.
Even a city as large as Stockholm becomes crowded in the tourist areas when a big ship is in port.

Sidewalk merchants displayed their wares on big carts.
People
strolled along, leisurely shopping,
enjoying the lively scene,
buying flowers,
visiting with friends, and crowding
around
several
street performers
. The costumed and painted mimes stood
stock still
on painted boxes
as the crowd surged around them, moving
with a flouri
sh
only
when
some
one dropped
coins into their hats.

“Yoo
hoo, Sidney!”
Esther Levy was tugging at my arm.
“Why aren’t you with the group?”

“Why, hello, Esther. Hello, Marjorie. Today is my day off.
Jay is with the group.
And I might ask you the same thing!
I thought you were going on the City Highlights tour.”

“We intended to go on the bus,” Marjorie said, “but we changed our plans when we learned of something much more important that we needed to do
.
”

“Oh, really,” I said,
wondering what she meant
,
“what is that?”

“Well, you see,
” Esther
explained
,
“
Chet told us that there is a famous museum here dedicated to social justice and we decided that it is our moral duty to visit it, rather than just going on some silly tour with him and the others
.
”

Marjorie chimed in.
“We’ve been trying to locate it all morning, but no one seems to know where it is.
Can
you
tell us
?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m not familiar with it,” I said, “but you might check with the Tourist Information Center.
I try to keep current with the attractions in the ports we visit, but I’ve not heard of this museum.
It may be new.”

I bet it is new
, I thought.
Real new
.
In fact, I bet that slick old Chet just made it up this
very
morning to get rid of you both.

I said goodbye to them and off they marched in their sturdy shoes,
dedicated to their quest,
clucking, no doubt, over my ignorance.

In the
shade of the buildings
across from the Clock Tower, the air was chilly, but the
open
square in the sunshine was bright and beautiful. I dug in my
bag
for my sunglasses, chose an empty table at a sidewalk café, and ordered coffee and
one of Stockholm’s delightful specialties, delicate
waffles
with
fresh
strawberries
, confectioner’s sugar,
and
lot
s
of
whipped cream
.
S
pread
ing
my papers out on the table along with Vinny’s manifest,
I
began to piece together the puzzle of The Strange Voyage of the High Steppers, as Jay called it.

A shadow fell across the pa
ge
,
and I looked up into Jerome
Morgan’s
scowling
face.

His broad, muscular shoulder
s under a white, pinpoint shirt
blocked the sun.
He was not looking at me, but, instead, at my papers.

“You seem to be doing a little detective work on your own today, Miss Marsh.
I’m afraid that
must
stop. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all, Mr. Morgan,” I said, hastily cramming the papers into my bag, “please, have a seat.
Detective work?
Don’t be
silly.
I was just reading up on Stockholm, doing a little homework
, that’s all.
Isn’t this a lovely city
? T
he flowers, the old buildings, and best of all
—
”

“Miss Marsh,” he interrupted, a faint smile on his lips, reaching inside his jacket, “don’t waste my time.
We know what you are doing.
We seem to have been working at cross-purposes for quite a while.
Now
I think it’s time to have a little talk.
Y
our
snooping is beginning to cause me problems.”

“What do you mean, detective work?
I am a travel agent, Mr. Morgan, not a detectiv
e.
Besides that, even if I was checking into a few things
, what I do on my own time is my own affair.
And how would you know what I have been doing
or not doing
?
What business is it of yours?”

He produced a black leather wallet
and
flipped it open
.
I have to admit, I was impressed.
You don’t see a real badge like that very often, at least not in my neighborhood. That is, if it was real.
At this point I wasn’t sure of anything.

“Your group, Miss Marsh, our group, the High Steppers, and you, as well, have been under surveillance since before you left New York.
We have reason to suspect that one or more of your party may not be the innocent tourist that he or she appears, but rather an agent of an international criminal organization dealing in the sale and smuggling of drugs, coun
terfeit currency, and documents
.
We believe they are
using your group as
a
cover for criminal activity.
You yourself were actually under suspicion in the beginning, but we have now realized that you could not possibly be involved
. Therefore
we would like, if we may, to enlist your help.”

Man!
What a shocker.
I felt like I had just dropped onto the set of
Mission Impossible
.
Maybe I
could choose my own code
phrase.
“
The blue dog barks at midnight
.”
Wow! I had about a million questions, none of which, of course, got answered.

“All I can tell you right now, Miss Marsh, is that you must be very, very careful to
report
immediately
anything at all unusual or out-of-the way that you observe either directly to me personally, or by calling one of the numbers that I will give you.
That’s how you can help.
”

He handed me a card, blank, except for three
hand-
printed telephone numbers.

“And no mor
e acting on your own, please
.
We do not want you to take any action whatsoever without first checking with us.
Working on your own could very dangerous for you
, and it might jeopardize our investigation
.”

He looked around
, glanced at his Rolex,
and pushed his chair back from the table.

“Now, remember,” he said, tapping on the table for emphasis, “if you
find out anything,
notice anything unusual, or have suspicions about
anything or anyone, anyone at all, just report it to me at once
in person
, or call one of those numbers. Leave everything to us.
And of course, you must not mention our conversation, or reveal my true identity to anyone, under any circumstances.”

He looked at his watch before continuing.

“When we are all safely back in New York, Miss Marsh, you will be contacted further and some of your questions may be answered at that time. Or maybe they won’t.
But just remember, by cooperating with us, even in a minor role, you are serving your country.
That’s the important thing. And now I think I’ve stayed here quite long enough.
Here comes your order.
Enjoy your day off.”

He stood as the waiter approached and strolled off into the crowded square, leaving me
to
wonder how long my mouth had been hanging open.

I
had just finished the last crispy, buttery waffle and was dusting confectioner’s sugar off of my black sweater when I spotted Captain Vargos standing on the steps of the cathedral.
I hadn’t noticed him before, but
I was so blown away by
Morgan’s revelations
that
I probably wouldn’t have noticed if Elvis had rolled up in his pink Cadillac.

W
hat is Vargos doing here?
I thought.
Why isn’t he on the ship where he’s supposed to be?
That’s suspicious.

Even as the question formed in my head, he disappeared into the crowd milling about the entrance.

I paid my bill, gathered my things, and quickly crossed the square, skirting the balloon seller, two tour groups, and any number of children and dogs.

“
Don’t do anything on your own without contacting me first,
”
Morgan
had
said.
To hell with that
, I
thought
. Badge or no badge,
I wasn’t sold on Morgan
or his
story.
I don’t know much about G-men, but I
doubt that
they wear big gold watches.

E
nter
ing
the narthex,
I had to wait
for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.
Candles flickered in the chapels on the sides of the vaulted sanctuary.
Tour groups moved quietly across the worn st
one floor, stopping now and then
to hear their murmuring guides explain, in several languages, the significance of the architectural features of the cathedral and
recount
its history.
They shuffled from chapel to cha
pel, whispering stories associated with
the statues and monuments that memorialized the famous and near-famous Swedes and saints.

The hum of muted voices created a hollow, echoing sound in the vastness of the great room.

There was no sign of Vargos.
His white uniform should have been noticeable in the dimness.

I moved quickly down the
outside
aisle, working my way through the crowd
and
peering into every chapel, then moved across to the other side, in front of the high altar, past the statue of St. George and the Dragon, and back up the opposite aisle.
No white uniform.
Where could he have gone?
There was only one public entrance, only one exit. Had I missed him?
I didn’t think so.

The only two places left to look that the public could visit were the clock tower and the crypt.
I don’t do heights, so I chose the crypt, a decision I instantly regretted once the huge metal door clang
ed
shut
behind me. My clumsiness was embarrassing, especially because
the loud, echoing noise
was followed by the sound of laughter, presumably directed at me.

T
he mustiness of centuries filled my head.

Bad choice, really bad choice.
Got to make this quick
, I thought, as I hurried down the winding stone steps, the air growing steadily stuffier. I couldn’t imagine our fastidious captain even setting foot in this dusty, creepy place.
Still, I
am
here now
, I thought,
so I might as well take a look
.

With each step, the light grew dimmer.
The walls were lined with engraved stone tablets and
alcoves
filled with the
marble statues and
remains of long-dead priests.
I tried not to think about free molecules.

Vargos
wa
s definitely not
t
here
, I decided
.
In fact, no one
was
in the
crypt
but me.
No one living, that is.

That’s it
, I thought.
R.I.P., folks,
I’m outta here
.

I ran quickly back up the steps
—
the only way out of that dismal place
—
and pushed hard on the heavy door, too ready for light and fresh air.

Nothing.

I hit the door with both hands, then my shoe, then put my shoulder hard against it, then finally kicked it, hard.

Still nothing.

Don’t panic, Sidney Marsh
, I told myself.
That won’t help.
Yell
.

So I yelled and yelled and yelled and no one came.
I beat on the door some more but nothing happened.
Then the walls themselves seemed to vibrate as the huge pipe organ in the vast chamber above began the first notes of the evensong.

For sure no one could hear me now.
I sat down on the damp stone floor and rested my head on the wall.

After a long while, the organ stopped and then I stood and beat on the door with my shoe and yelled and yelled again and again and again until it wasn’t a yell at all, only a croak.
But no one came.

I sat on the steps and put my head on my knees and tried to think my way out.
Deep down, I knew I was stuck.

Evensong was over, the church would soon be closing for the night, and the
Rapture
would sail without me.

My best hope was that a sexton would check the crypt before closing down for the night.
More likely, I would have to stay right where I was with the saints until the crypt was opened for visitors in the morning.
What had the sign said?
Was the crypt open every day, or just on certain days?
Was the church even open every day?
I couldn’t remember.

At the worst, well, I couldn’t even think about the worst.

I looked at my watch, tilting it
so that I could read it in the faint light.
7:55. I was sure the cathedral would close soon, if it wasn’t closed already.
No one was coming to release me.
No one.

I went to the bottom of the steps, made a pillow of my purse, and stretched out on the cold stone floor.
At least the air was a little better nearer the floor.

Five minutes later, when I thought
the situation
couldn’t get any worse, it did.

What light there was went out, leaving me in total darkness.