Dead Sea (19 page)

‘This is even worse than going to the theatre,' said Richard mock mournfully as they hurried past the truncated gymnasium, the end of which had been adapted to house the sushi restaurant whose name meant ‘Sky' in Japanese. ‘I turned up five minutes late in Stratford once and was locked out of the first act of
Hamlet
. I never did work out what on earth was going on! Spent
four hours
trying . . .'

For just about two seconds, Nic believed him. Then, ‘
Yeah
,' drawled the American. ‘I had the same problem at a cricket match. Place called Lord's.'

‘Really?' asked Richard innocently. ‘How much did you miss?'

‘None of it. I just couldn't work out what the hell was going on. Spent
five days
trying . . .'

The restaurant was exclusive as well as time-specific. There were eight seats grouped around an L-shaped wooden bar which looked priceless, ancient and lovingly maintained. What was it about the Japanese and their wood? thought Richard. Six of the guests looked out over the night-time vista of Tokyo lights through floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows. From this height, Richard really could see why they called it ‘Sky'. Richard and Nic sat in the pair with their backs to the window, lucky to be here at all. The whole room was tiled and flagged in dark grey, onyx on the wall, marble on the floor and the theme was taken up by the grey, black and white of the mats, cutlery and chopstick rests in front of them. The lighting was overhead and, to put it mildly, theatrical. Even the bonsai tree got its own spotlight.

‘What's the next move now that we've found out where Professor Romeo and his Juliet went?' asked Nic more seriously, as he opened the exquisitely tied white box in front of him to find that it contained a perfectly folded napkin.

‘Find out about this ship,
Dagupan Maru
,' answered Richard at once. ‘What flag it's flying; where it's registered and who owns it; what it's carrying and where it's bound for.' Then, more sensitive to atmosphere, perhaps, than Nic, he added in a lower voice, ‘But we'll leave that till tomorrow. This show's about to hit the road. Remember
Hamlet
. Remember Lord's.'

They fell silent and faced forward.

The beautifully suited and tailored Japanese men and women in the six seats beside them stopped frowning and tutting. The two young men in brown chefs' outfits and flat hats bowed – and the meal began. Began, in fact, with a drink. A young woman in a jade-green kimono asked each one what they would prefer. She approved of Nic's choice of sakes and frowned over Richard's choice of waters and teas, but he had worked in Hong Kong and Shanghai: he knew what it was to be viewed as a round-eyed barbarian. Then the young men behind the counter began to introduce, discuss and prepare the fish. One spoke Japanese, the other English. They were both, although youthful in appearance, masters of their art, though they shared as much with Richard Burton as they did with Raymond Blanc.

For the next three hours, the two sushi masters delivered bite-sized course after bite-sized course, each designed to build upon the last in an ever-growing mountain of taste, each produced with a flourish, like an elegant magic trick. Almost every member of the fish and crustacean families available in the waters on and off Japan was served in one form or another – raw or marinated, in shell or out, with wasabi or with ginger – most of them laid on a bed of rice and wrapped in seaweed. Richard drank thimble-fuls of water while Nic sipped his sake icy from a glass and thimblefuls of tea while Nic sipped it steaming from a porcelain cup. Apart from that, he matched his companion course for course. If not from soup to nuts, at least from
amuse
to
miso.
Which was in many ways, Richard thought with sleepy contentment as he drained the
miso
bowl at last, almost the exact opposite.

It was midnight when they left the restaurant, and although Nic had slept well the night before, he had sipped his way through a fair amount of sake tonight. Richard, though sober, was tired. They both went straight to bed.

Richard's final thought before sleep claimed him was, unusually, not of Robin.

It was of a mysterious bulker called
Dagupan Maru.

Richard woke with the name of the runaway lovers' ship still in his head and as he showered and shaved, he tried to work out where he should start to look for her. In the old days he would have started with Lloyd's of London, for most of the working ships in the world had been registered there at one time or another. But that venerable institution nowadays really only kept records of vessels that the members' agents had checked and insured. And increasing numbers of owners in the current financial climate insured their own bottoms – and prayed they'd never have to replace them.

There was the British Department of Transport List but that only contained details of British registered vessels that fell under the aegis of the UK Authorities. But even here there was a certain amount of uncertainty about vessels – and businesses – registered in the Channel Islands and the Isle of Man. Each of the major maritime nations had the equivalent, also with its individual anomalies. But there was no central database, even of the major players and their vessels, let alone of the anomalies and theirs. And in any case, just because a vessel sailed from a certain country's ports and was crewed with a certain nation's seamen it no longer guaranteed that either one was the vessel's home country. That it
flew their flag,
as the saying went. A literal saying, however, for by maritime law all ships had to have the name of their home port written on their hull and the flag of their country of registration flying at their masthead.

But names and flags told you little, for flags of convenience were the modern norm as canny owners tried to overcome union rules and national laws about working conditions and safety procedures. There was certainly no central list of vessels under the nearly forty flags of convenience currently in use – from Panama, where the American ship owners had gone in the early days to break the powerful US shipping unions – to Liberia, the more modern favourite. Countries (sometimes little more than island states) whose ‘flags' had broadened into offshore havens for all sorts of things – businesses, real and fake, working or shell, that didn't want their records checked by taxmen or financial authorities any more than they wanted their vessels and their crew conditions checked.

Richard gave a wry, lopsided grin, as he began to run the familiar list through his head, starting, aptly enough, with the legendary old pirate ports of the Spanish Main: Antigua, Aruba, Barbuda, Bahamas, Barbados, Belize, Bermuda, Cayman . . . If Captain Jack Sparrow were alive today, he thought grimly, he knew where
The Black Pearl
would be registered; what flag she would sail under, besides the skull and crossbones.

He would just have to hope that the Japanese Transport, Port and Pilotage Authorities had the details he wanted – and that they would be willing to share what information they actually had with him. The word
Maru,
whether it meant ‘circle', ‘completeness' or ‘castle' also meant that the ship was Japanese. He would have to start with that and see where it got him. But where was she registered? Whose flag fluttered at her forepeak or her jackstaff? By the time he had slapped Roger and Gallet aftershave on his lean cheeks, he had decided that the best place to start was at the twenty-four-hour secretariat at Crewfinders. He glanced at his Rolex. Seven thirty a.m. in Tokyo meant eleven thirty p.m. in London. Audrey would be on duty.

Richard flipped up the top of his laptop and hit the email button. Crewfinders was in his electronic address book. He sat, still steaming with a towel wrapped round his waist, double-checked that Skype was down, and started typing:

Dear Audrey: This hasn't
happened, but please imagine it has and act accordingly. Bulk
Carrier
Dagupan Maru
several days out of Tokyo
(destination unknown but current position presumably somewhere in
the North Pacific) wants a replacement captain/first officer. I need to know everything about this vessel. Cargo, command (if possible), flag and owners as soon as you can. If you run into any difficulties, get Jim Bourne's Intelligence Section at London Centre involved. Reply to this address or call my Japanese cell on the number you already have. I will be starting with the Tokyo Harbour and Shipping Authorities and seeing what they will put on public record. Richard.

He flagged it
urgent
and pressed SEND.

Then he had a thought. He logged into
MarineTraffic.com
and put in
Dagupan Maru
. After a moment, the vessel's basic details came up beside a blurred photograph, snapped from some distance by the look of things. He scanned swiftly through the details. Ship type, year built, length and breadth, tonnage and so forth. His eyes leaped down the screen looking for more up-to-date information. Something to get him started. Flag:
Barbuda
. Last position:
Vancouver
. Current position: blank. Last known port:
Vancouver
. Information received:
thirty days twelve hours sixteen minutes ago. Not currently in range
. Voyage-related info:
departed Vancouver
. Destination: blank. Recent calls:
none.

He scrolled down to the next page, eyes narrow and busy. Vessel's Wiki: Type – bulk carrier. Owner, Manager, Builder, hull number, class, service status, all blank. He hissed with frustration. Tonnage and dimensions:
no new information
. Communications, capacity, cargo, engines, officers, crew: all blank.

‘She's a ghost ship, near as, dammit, sailing under a flag of convenience,' he said to Nic half an hour later as they craned over the laptop sitting amid the wreckage of their breakfast.

‘Well, let's hope the Tokyo Port Authorities have a bit more info,' said Nic, round the last of his waffles, bacon and maple syrup.

‘And that they're willing to share it with us,' nodded Richard, pushing aside a half-eaten croissant.

Richard and Nic had met in K'shiki on the thirty-eighth floor where they settled for the Western-style breakfast. Over coffee, after closing the disappointing laptop, they planned their working day, which was going to begin – and probably end – down on the docks. And they planned their evening by booking a table in Signature on the floor below.

‘Tapas is supposed to be brilliant, too,' said Richard, pushing the laptop away as though he blamed it for the lack of infor-mation. ‘A bit like Sora but different food. The sweet at the end for pudding looks exactly like bacon and eggs. There's all sorts of fun stuff. Quite an experience, I'm told.'

‘Yeah,' answered Nic, who was footing the bill this evening. ‘But after last night I'd like something a little less theatrical. And in any case, Tapas is booked solid.'

The Tokyo Port Authority Building might as well have been booked solid too. They were dropped off in front of the imposing building, which was surprisingly old and sturdy-looking amid the high-rise and neon-lit extravagance of much of Tokyo. They had to push their way in through the door and repeat their names and appointment time to several stony-faced receptionists before they got through to the interior. And even here they simply joined another series of queues. Not even shipping magnates like Richard and Nic could walk in off the street and expect to be seen at once – even though both men had arranged for their head offices to phone ahead. They ended up hanging around a little listlessly, watching sheets of grey rain falling over Tokyo Bay on a dull and darkening morning that even Disney was having trouble brightening up. ‘Maybe we should grab a bite of lunch then split up,' suggested Richard at last. ‘I could try the pilot office while you work your way up the queue here . . .'

But the idea wasn't put to the test. They were called through even as Nic said, ‘Hey that's a good . . .'

The young woman port authority official was called Nanaka Oda, according to the ID badge on her lapel and the label on her desk. She rose to greet them and then sat when they filled the comfortable seats opposite her.

‘You require information about a vessel departing Tokyo port some days ago?' she enquired formally, glancing from each of them across to her computer screen.

‘The
Dagupan Maru
,' confirmed Richard. ‘All the information you can give us, please.'

‘Why you require this?' she asked frostily.

‘We are interested in the vessel and her whereabouts,' answered Richard.

‘You have authority for this enquiry?' she probed.

‘No. Do we need any?' asked Richard innocently.

‘For some information, obviously so!' she snapped.

‘What can you tell us without authority?' persisted Richard.

She gave him a lingering look then turned to her computer. Her fingers flashed across the keyboard, and she began reading in a monotone. ‘
Dagupan Maru
. Vessel's details as follows. Ship Type: bulk carrier. Year Built: 1992.
Length and Breadth: one-hundred-and-ninety-four metres by twenty-three metres. Gross Tonnage: eleven thousand tons. Dead Weight: twenty-nine thousand tons
.
Last registered flag: Barbuda. Call sign . . .

She had hardly even started before Richard realized she was simply reciting the information from
MarineTraffic.com
he had consulted already. But he sat and let her read it right through to the end, hoping that the port authority would have updated some of the information – or that she would be able, and willing, to add to it.

But no. When the chilly Nanaka reached the end of the Marine Traffic information, she stopped.

‘Is that it?' asked Richard unbelievingly. ‘Is that all you can tell us?'

‘Yes,' she said decidedly. ‘Unless you come back with authority, I can tell you no more!'