Assault on the Empress (6 page)

Abe Cross stared at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He'd actually gotten up, felt semi-awake, and it wasn't even eleven forty-five yet as he sneaked a look at the Rolex on his left wrist. He spit out the last of the toothpaste, rinsed, then dug around in his Dopp kit for the dental floss, found it and tock a piece and began working it between his teeth. This Doris Knight sounded like a real winner, with a fakey name like that. And she would be ticked that her regular pianist had gotten the axe. Probably fake blonde hair, fake fingernails and falsies and a voice that sounded like a parody of itself. He shrugged his shoulders, finished with the floss.

Naked, he walked out of the small but adequate bathroom and toward the bed. There had been no time to unpack and he rummaged through his things to find clothes—underpants, a pair of black socks, a black long-sleeved knit shirt, black slacks. He wondered if there was a dress code for persons who worked for the line aboard the
Empress
. There'd be one for evening, of course. He didn't have to wear some kind of god-awful uniform, did he? He stuffed his feet back into the black loafers he'd worn the previous night and went over to the dresser, ran a comb through his brown hair a few times and snatched up his cigarettes, his cabin key, his lighter and his little Swiss Army Champion, pocketing all. “Handkerchief, ' he muttered, rummaging through his things again, finding one and stuffing it in his pocket. There was no need for wallet or passport and he had been told that all his meals were included in the deal so he didn't need money. Cross grabbed up the black leather satchel in which he carried his music and let himself out.

Unlike earlier that morning when he had come aboard, the corridor bustled with activity, stewards and housekeeping staff moving in and out of cabins open and unoccupied. Sailing tonight, there would be much to do, passengers due on board any time throughout the afternoon he guessed. When he'd been making his way to his cabin, he'd spied a coffee shop and had logged away its location for future reference. He made his way toward it now, hoping it would be open for the convenience of the crew.

He took the elevator up to what he hoped was the right deck and exited, orienting himself, aiming himself in what he hoped was the right direction. After a moment's wandering, he found the coffee shop. It was closed. “Shit.” He shrugged, consulted the deck plan in the glassed-over metallic frame near the coffee shop doors and found the Seabreeze Lounge. A glance at his watch again showed that it was five to twelve anyway. If this Doris Knight person was already on the prod over him, he didn't want to make it worse. He despised working as an accompanist even for four sets a night.

The Seabreeze Lounge doors—big etched-glass affairs with brass-ringed fake portholes somehow set in the upper third, the etching showing fantasy dolphins and palm trees and curling waves—were open wide, but no real seabreeze would be possible here because it wasn't an open deck amidships, and one had to content oneself with staring through Plexiglas. Tenders bringing baggage and stores aboard were all there was to be seen.

Cross entered the Seabreeze Lounge. It was the nice thing about being a pianist. Pianos were so big they were easy enough to find. This one—a concert grand with glass sides and glass top, looking for all the world as gaudy as something the great showman Liberace would have used in Las Vegas—was on a raised stage at the far end of the double-football-field-sized room, glass doors like the ones through which he had entered nearby to it, but closed. A mirror-backed bar ran along his left as he approached the piano, tiered rows of tables on his right. He was crossing a tiled dance floor.

The colors here, glistening blacks and silvery greys and subdued pinks, were classic art deco, as were the idyllically slender nudes with chignoned hair who posed in miniature splendor holding up discreetly sized lamps as though they were something vastly more important than they were.

Two shirt-sleeved men were working behind the bar, bottle counting and filling, two women helping them, drying and polishing glasses. There was no sign of Doris Knight and there had been no easeled announcement beside the lounge doors of her performing.

He approached the piano.

A woman's voice—kind of raspy sounding—called to him and he turned around. “You the guy who's replacing Lenny Brooks?” It was one of the women behind the bar.

“If he was the last pianist, then I'm the guy.”

“I'm Helen.”

“I'm Abe. Good to meet you, Helen.”

“If you want some coffee or some sweet rolls—you know, Danish?—just go through those doors. Doris isn't here yet.”

He looked where the red-haired woman pointed. Portholed doors, but mahogany colored, at the end of the bar nearest the piano. He set his music down against the lip of the stage and headed for the doors, shooting Helen a wave, going through the swinging doors. It was a kitchen. Apparently the lounge served late-night meals. It wasn't large enough for much of anything else. But there was an urn of coffee and an urn of hot water, beside the latter a bowl of tea bags. And there were Styrofoam cups and napkins and there was a tray covered with white linen napkins. He lifted them back. Fresh Danish that even smelled good. He took a Styrofoam plate and two rolls, avoiding any with nuts or coconut, and some coffee. There was no sign of cream or milk for the coffee, only sugar, which he never used.

He heard the doors behind him and turned around.

Whoever she was, she was exquisitely lovely. A veil of dark brown hair the same color as his own hung to her bare shoulders, parted in the middle and softly waved. Touching at the edges of her shoulders was the top of a bell-sleeved off-white peasant blouse. It was tucked in at the waist of an almost ankle-length navy blue skirt with a single fold at the front. She wore white, textured stockings and flat-heeled brown shoes. When she spoke, her gently throaty alto sounded at once sexy and innocent. He thought he must be dreaming.

“There's milk and cream in that first refrigerator. Or at least there was this morning. I'm an early riser whenever I get the chance. ”

“Thanks.” Cross nodded, still looking at her, realizing he was holding the plate he'd made for himself in one hand and his coffee in the other.

“You're the pianist, Helen said.”

“You're not—”

“Doris Knight?” She laughed and her laugh sounded like a carillon ringing. “They told me Doris got all upset that her pianist was canned. Maybe that's to her credit. Loyalty, I mean. She threatened to quit—at least that's what they told me—and they let her. I'm her replacement.”

“That's why there wasn't a poster outside….”

“Um-hmm! I guess they're making it now. I'm Jenny Hall.” She walked toward him and extended her right hand, a smile lighting her face and her green eyes, her wide, pretty mouth upturning at the corners and making little things like dimples in her cheeks.

Cross stood there balancing his food and his coffee, then set them down and took her hand. “I'm Abe Cross.”

“I heard you play in London—one of the hotels. I can't remember. I was spending the night there, leaving the next morning. I remember you because you were so good.”

“You're sweet to say that.” He realized he hadn't let go of her hand. He didn't want to.

“Can I have my hand back? I mean, you can hold it again if you want.” She did the laugh again and it had the same effect.

“Only if you promise.” He smiled.

“I promise.”

He let go of her hand. She tossed her head to get her hair back from her face. He noticed delicate-looking gold-pierced earrings. There was a thin gold chain at her throat. “Wanna take some coffee in there and try a few songs, Mr. Cross?” She nodded her head toward the Seabreeze Lounge and did the thing with her hair again.

“It is after twelve,” she told him, turning back the cuff of her blouse and reading a ladies Rolex. It was plain except for a Jubilee band of alternating stainless steel and gold links.

“Only if you call me Abe.”

“I'll call you Abe if you'll call me Jenny.”

“Deal.” He extended his hand and she laughed, then took it. “I'm gonna use any excuse I can get to touch your hand again. Just figured to be up front about it.”

“All right. I like that.”

“You're the most marvelously beautiful girl I've ever seen. Except, maybe, in a dream.”

She actually blushed a little and her eyes cast down. “You're still holding my hand.”

“So I am.” And he let her fingers drift from his. “Would you like some coffee?”

“okay.”

He poured a cup for her. “First refrigerator, you said?”

“Uh-huh. How'd they get you to replace the pianist?”

“Hotel I was playing at is owned by the same people who own the
Empress Britannia.
Made me the proverbial offer I couldn't refuse. Or something like that. Cream in your coffee?”

“Milk.”

“Right.” He poured milk from a little metal pitcher into her cup first, then his own. “They catch you between engagements?” He thought better of it after he'd said it.

“I was going back to the States anyway. I've been doing club dates in France and Germany and Italy for the last eight months. I figured it was time to go home. How about you? Going all the way up to Alaska and over to Japan with the
Empress
?”

He put the milk away. She took both coffees and he took the plate with the Danish, held the door for her to pass through. “I think so. But that could always change. I don't have a family or anything.” Why had he said that?

“I have an older sister and a younger brother. Our parents are gone.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I was just about to ask if there were anymore at home like you, though. But younger brothers never interested me and the older sister couldn't be as beautiful as you.”

Jenny Hall laughed. “She was always the pretty one. Blonde hair. She was captain of the cheerleaders in high school. I never even made it on the squad.” There was a hint of sadness in her voice. She set the coffee down on a small table behind the piano and just looked at him.

“If you'd been on the cheerleaders, it would have been the only high school with enough team spirit to beat the Chicago Bears. Trust me on that.” He didn't sit down at the piano yet. “Want a roll?”

She just looked at him, startled.

“I mean a Danish.” He grinned.

She looked down at her shoes for a second and he thought he saw her smile. “Do you always come on to girls like this?” she asked after a moment.

His mouth was half full of danish. He shook his head, swallowed, almost choked. “I've never met a girl who looked like you. Sounded like you. Smiled like you.” He took another bite of his danish and she sipped at her coffee, blowing across it first like a child might try to cool a cup of hot chocolate.

Cross finished the first Danish—pineapple and light as air—and took a swallow of coffee. It wasn't all that hot. He'd forgotten the napkin, so wiped his fingers clean on his handkerchief. “Don't want sticky keys,” he told her. “Do you play piano?”

“I can pick out a few things. But I don't play very well. I played in the high school band and kept up in college.”

“What instrument?”

“Then promise you won't make any jokes about it. You've got to,” she insisted.

“Promise,” Cross agreed.

“The flute.”

“I can see where flute jokes might be awkward on the ear. I'll keep my promise.” Cross adjusted the seat—his predecessor had apparently been shorter than Cross's own plus six feet—and flexed his fingers, then tried a few arpeggios to check for tune. He had imagined that with all the subtle movement of a ship and the constant humidity of the salt air, there might be a problem with the tune. But it was more than acceptable, almost dead on pitch. “What can I play for you?”

“Why don't you just play something your way and I can get your style before you try to catch mine. It was just when I came to Europe that I heard you in that hotel in London.”

“I know the perfect thing. ‘You Go to My Head'?”

She smiled as she said, “I know that,” and Cross wondered if she really knew it like he'd meant it.

General Argus was as on time as a Swiss stopwatch. At precisely 9:00 A.M. Eastern time, the telephone rang and Darwin Hughes, fresh back from a longer than usual run, wiped the towel draped over his neck across his face as he picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“You wanted a way to reach your friend in Chicago. Well, I've got that for you. Got a pencil?”

“Right here. Yes.”

Hughes copied down a hotel address and two phone numbers. From the hotel, it was obvious that Lewis Babcock still believed in going first class.

“Got it?”

“Yes. I've got it. Know what he's up to?”

“If you feel comfortable about your line.”

“Comfortable enough for this I think.”

“All right,” Argus began. “Nine days ago, two Chicago police officers were assigned to transport a substantial street value's worth of cocaine to Central Police Headquarters at Eleventh and State Street. It had been seized in a raid the night before. The car they were driving never reached Headquarters. It was found a couple of hours later. The cocaine was missing of course and one of the officers was dead, shot six times in the chest with the revolver left on the seat beside him. The revolver belonged to the second officer. He was found wandering around the West Side, no memory at all of what had happened, his gun missing of course. He was arrested and there's a pre-trial hearing on first-degree murder charges and a number of other charges scheduled for tomorrow. The second officer is a friend of your friend.”

“How does it look for the second officer?”

“Just common knowledge and newspaper and television coverage is all I have. And the general consensus of that is that the second officer was part of a conspiracy and things went wrong and that's why he got caught. He's already been suspended and departmental charges have been filed. According to the press, he's guilty as sin.”

“And what about my other friend?” Hughes asked.

“Nothing on him yet. Dropped out of sight, but we may get a lead as soon as we're able to contact his employer. Where can I reach you, Hughes?”

“Chicago. I'll call you from there. Thanks.” He hung up, raised the receiver again as he flipped through the Rolodex, then dialed his travel agent. He hated getting gouged on airline tickets. “Hello. Is Millie in yet? … Right. This is Darwin Hughes. I'll hold.” Lewis Babcock had always struck him as a crusader, and there was nothing wrong with that. “Millie? Darwin Hughes here. I need the first available flight out to Chicago. Maybe out of Athens and transfer at Charlotte? … Right. I'll need a couple of hours to get ready and get myself to Athens…. Well, do the best you can. And it will be round trip, but if it's a matter of saving a few bucks and leaving later, I'll spend the extra…. Right. I'll hold on.” He daubed at his perspiration with the towel again.

She got him a flight and a ticket price that sounded ridiculously high, but under the circumstances he couldn't hold out for anything better. He looked at his Rolex. “Yes. I can make it. But I know I'll be running behind. Can I prevail on you for a favor, Millie? … No…. Could you meet me at the airport if it's at all possible? Meet me with the tickets?” She said she could and not to tell anybody because it might set a dangerous precedent. He doubted he knew any of her other clients anyway, gave her a credit card number and told her “Thanks,” then hung up.

It wasn't even half past eight in Chicago because of the time difference and he dialed the hotel number and asked for Mr. Lewis Babcock's room. The Hilton operator tried the room and said there was no answer. He asked for the manager, got the assistant and told her that it was urgent he speak with Mr. Babcock. It concerned a death. He held the line while a bellboy was sent up to knock on Mr. Babcock's room door and another sent to page him in the hotel restaurants in case Mr. Babcock was having breakfast. After seven minutes, the assistant manager came back on the line and told him there had been no luck finding Mr. Babcock. Could they take a message? Hughes told her that the death was rather close to Mr. Babcock and that he—Hughes—wouldn't want Mr. Babcock to hear of it from anyone but him. Then he made a reservation, giving her a credit card number; she graciously handled it all personally. He said good-bye and hung up.

The next call was to the other number. A woman, young sounding with a pretty voice, answered. “You don't know me—”

“I won't talk to any reporters—”

“I'm not a reporter. I'm a friend of Lewis. He may have mentioned me. Darwin Hughes is my name. I tried Lewis at the hotel and didn't have any luck. Is he at your place?”

“No.”

“You're the wife of Lewis's policeman friend?”

“Yes.”

“Is it as bad as the news media says, Mrs.—”

“Mrs. Hayes. Thelma Hayes. Ernie's in terrible trouble, Mr. Hughes. And he wouldn't do a thing like that. He's been a wonderful husband and father. He's been honest all his life and the man they say he shot was a good friend. They were on the same bowling team, and had been partners in the same patrol car for the last three years. That's why they gave Ernie and Mike—”

“Mike is the dead man?”

“Yes. That's … that's why they gave Mike and Ernie the cocaine to take to Eleventh Street. Because they knew they could be trusted. It was a lot.”

“I understand it was, Mrs. Hayes,” Hughes told her. “Do you have any idea where Lewis is?”

“He's out trying to help Ernie and us, that's all I know.”

“All right. If you hear from Lewis, Mrs. Hayes, tell him I called and tell him I'm flying in this afternoon and I made reservations at the same hotel he's staying at. I'll try to help as much as possible. I'll call you from the airport. Will you be at home, Mrs. Hayes?”

“Yes.”

“Then I'll call and perhaps by that time you'll know where I can link up with Lewis. And don't worry. Good-bye.” He hung up. Why had he told her not to worry? He started stripping off his sweatsuit as he walked toward the stairs….

Thomas Alyard had his story straight if anyone asked. He'd been driving and his Fiat had developed engine trouble, which was why he was walking along the beach toward Brindisi. The reason wasn't anything near the truth, but he wasn't about to tell a casual inquirer or an Italian policeman that he had just a short while ago left a fishing boat that had smuggled him out of Communist Albania with a vial of the latest in bacteriological warfare developments in his pocket.

He had given the fisherman the fourth diamond, as he didn't anticipate having to cut more glass. Back in Italy, his credit cards would get him farther than an unset diamond anyway. There was an airport and he could call in, then fly from there to Rome, even if it meant chartering an aircraft. He wanted the thing in his pocket gone into someone else's hands. That it hadn't been more difficult getting out of Albania meant only one thing to him: The KGB was taking this personally, which meant that sooner or later, David Stakowski would be caught and forced to talk and then the KGB would be after him. They would, of course, already be looking for the Swiss businessman, Thomas Rheinhold, but Rheinhold had ceased to exist as soon as the smuggler's fishing boat had gotten into Italian territorial waters, the passport going over the side along with all the other identification except the driver's license and American Express card.

Alyard had a story for that one too. He was an Italian citizen—he could fake the language well enough and excuse the accent by saying he had spent much of his time abroad—and why would an Italian citizen need a passport in his own country? A little outrage could do wonders.

He kept walking….

The sun was strong and the wind was bitingly cold here along the beach. He had been looking out to sea while the other man had been talking with his subordinates. And now that the subordinates had been dismissed, the man was talking to him. The Albanian secret policeman was becoming pronouncedly annoying. Finally, Vols looked him square in the eye and said, “It should be sufficient for a loyal Communist to know that this Thomas Alyard or Thomas Rheinhold is an enemy of the state. Information such as you ask me for is on a need-to-know basis, as you well know. You have no need to know. It is enough that he is an enemy agent and that he is wanted for questioning in Moscow. Now. Who would have taken him across and where would he have been dropped, since your people obviously have lost him?”

The Albanian glared at him. “If we had been told earlier, Comrade Major, of this man's importance, he would not have slipped through our security net.”

“ ‘Net' is a very good term for it, Captain. A net has holes in it, just like your security. I told you he was a fleeing enemy agent. That was all you needed to know. You lost him. Now I must get him back. As simple as that. You can best serve the state now by providing me with information. The names of any likely persons who would have risked smuggling him out with the fishing fleet and were possessed of a fast enough boat to get away from the fleet, reach Italy and be able to return without being missed. I will especially be interested in any returning boats from the fleet which didn't catch the usual amount of fish or any fish at all. And, if you have such information, and as a policeman I would assume that you might, where is the most likely spot that Alyard would have been put ashore. Near Brindisi? Where? The female agent I'm working with will be in charge and one of my men will be with her. The other thing you can do is keep your hands off David Stakowski.”

“He might have much valued information, Comrade Major.”

“That will be for the ears of my superiors in Moscow. If you need to be informed of this via official channels, that too can be arranged. The point is, you have work to do and so do I. The optimum method then is for us both to be about it. For the good of the state, of course.”

“Brindisi is the most likely spot. Smugglers can be supplied there, our informants say, with Western goods. We bend every effort to stop them, Comrade Major, but …”

Vols smiled at the Albanian secret policeman. “In my country, American blue jeans are very hot items on the black market. Yet, when the security of the state is at stake, we will sacrifice pursuit of blue-jean smugglers for the higher good. I suggest that you follow our example, Captain.” He turned and started walking up the beach. But he looked back over his shoulder and called to the policeman who still looked after him, “Remember! The woman is in charge!” And under his breath, Vols added, “You bloody ass.”