The Wheel of Darkness (13 page)

LeSeur glanced at Mason. She was looking ahead through the forward windows, calm and poised; the only hint of something amiss was the rapidly disappearing flush. So far, through the shakedown cruise and today’s departure, she’d taken the commodore’s heavy- handedness and second-guessing with equanimity and grace. Even being passed over as master of the
Britannia
seemed not to have ruffled her feathers. Perhaps she’d gotten used to the high-seas chauvinism and developed a thick skin. The captaincies of the great ships seemed to be one of the last male bastions in the civilized world. She was no doubt aware of the unspoken rule: in the passenger ship business, the so-called teak ceiling remained: no matter how competent, a woman would never make master of one of the great liners.

“Speed under the hull thirty knots, sir,” the helmsman said.

Cutter nodded and turned to the chief security officer. “All right, Mr. Kemper, what is it?”

The small, bulletlike man spoke. Despite his heavy Boston accent and inescapable American-ness, LeSeur thought of Kemper as a kindred soul. Maybe it was because they both came from working-class neighborhoods in port cities on the Atlantic. Kemper had once been a cop, shot a drug dealer who was about to pull the hammer on his partner, become a hero—but left the force anyway. Couldn’t deal with it, apparently. Still, he was a bloody good security officer, even if he did lack self-confidence. LeSeur guessed that lack was one of the by- products of killing a man.

“Captain, we’ve got an issue in casino operations.”

Cutter turned away from Kemper and spoke to the man as if he weren’t there. “Mr. Kemper, the casinos are incidental to the operation of ship. The first officer will handle it.” Without even glancing at LeSeur, he turned to the officer of the watch. “Call me if you need me, Mr. Vigo.” He strode crisply across the bridge and disappeared through the door.

“ ‘This is not the Love Boat,’ ” LeSeur muttered. “What a prig.”

Mason said crisply, but not unkindly, “Commodore Cutter was correct to say what he did.”

“Yes, sir.” LeSeur turned to Kemper with a friendly smile. “All right, Mr. Kemper, let’s hear about the problem in the casino.”

“It seems we got a bunch of card counters working the blackjack tables.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“First Mayfair was down two hundred thousand pounds, and then Covent Garden dropped by a hundred thousand.”

LeSeur felt a slight twinge: this was just the kind of thing that would really steam Corporate. “Did you identify them?”

“Obviously, we know who the winners are, but we don’t know who’s just lucky and who’s counting. They work as a team: players and counters. The counters don’t play—they watch and signal their players. As you know, they’re the brains.”

“I don’t know, actually. Not a coincidence?”

“Not likely. Hentoff’s worried they might be like that team of MIT students a few years back who took Vegas for three million.”

The sick feeling in the pit of LeSeur’s stomach deepened. The
Britannia
, he knew, wasn’t Las Vegas, where you could give a chap the bum’s rush if you caught him counting cards. These were paying passengers. And passenger ship companies relied heavily on gambling profits: a row in the casino might discourage other passengers from gambling. But something had to be done. A successful maiden voyage into New York with a fanfare of adoring publicity wouldn’t matter a damn to Corporate if there were huge losses in the casino. It was about money—first, last, and always.

“What do you propose we do about it?” he asked.

“Well, sir. There was this . . .” Kemper hesitated. “This
unusual
passenger. A rich guy who styles himself a private investigator. He’s the one first spotted the card-counting operation. He’s offered to help identify the individuals involved.”

“In return for what?”

“Well, you see . . .” Kemper stammered a moment. “It appears he’s on board to track down an artifact he claims was stolen from a client of his. If we give him some information on his suspects, he’ll help us with the card counters . . .” His voice trailed off.

“For all we know,” said LeSeur briskly, “this might be a coincidence and we’ll be up a hundred thousand pounds in Mayfair by the end of the night. Let’s wait a few more hours, see if the losses continue. Whatever you do, please deal with it
quietly
. No melodrama.”

“Right, sir.”

LeSeur watched Kemper go. He felt sorry for the guy—and sorry for himself. Good Christ, if only he were back in the Royal Navy, where they didn’t have casinos, card counters, and neurotic passengers.

Y
OU MADE THE BATHWATER TOO HOT AGAIN,” THE ELDERLY WOMAN
said, her shrill voice far too loud for the cabin. “And you put in too little bath oil.”

Inge Larssen struggled to help the old woman—who weighed twice what she did—into her nightwear. “Sorry, mum,” she murmured.

“And how many times do I have to tell you?” The hectoring voice went on as the ancient skin, wrinkled and flaccid as a rooster’s wattle, mercifully disappeared beneath layers of silk and cotton. “Leaving dinner tonight, you put my handbag on the right side of my wheelchair. It goes on the left! The
left
!”

“Very well, mum.” Wincing at the tight grip the ancient claw had on her shoulder, Inge handed the old woman her cane. Immediately, she received a painful rap on the knuckles with it. “Stand up straight, girl. Do you want me to take a tumble?”

“No, mum.” Inge looked away as she spoke. Looking at her employer only seemed to incite additional criticism.

“Really, you are the
worst
companion I’ve ever had—and I’ve had more than my share, I can tell you. If you don’t shape up I’ll simply have to let you go.”

“I’m very sorry if I’m not giving satisfaction, mum,” Inge replied.

It was the work of half an hour to get the woman into bed, lift her feet into position and tuck them in, apply lotion to her hands and vanishing cream to her face, comb and pin her hair, and fluff up the pillows just so.

“I don’t want to hear a sound out of you, now,” came the croaking voice. “You know how hard I find it to fall asleep.”

“Very well, mum.”

“And leave the door open. I’m a light sleeper and there’s no telling when I might need you.”

“Very well.” As softly and slowly as she could, Inge crept out of the bedroom and took up her position in a chair just outside, in the living room. It was here that she slept, on the couch. The old woman insisted that her beddings be put away first thing in the morning and not brought out until late at night; it seemed to annoy her that Inge had to sleep as well.

She waited, barely daring to breathe, while the old lady muttered and murmured fretfully. Gradually, the sounds died away and the breathing became more regular. Inge sat listening until the loud snoring began, as it always did: despite what the crone said, she was the heaviest of sleepers and never woke up during the night.

Now, very carefully, Inge rose from her chair and moved stealthily past the open bedroom door. The snoring continued unabated. Moving to the entryway, she passed a mirror, and stopped just a moment to make sure she was presentable. A serious young woman with straight blonde hair and sad, almost frightened eyes looked back. She ran a quick hand over her hair. Then, moving to the front door of the suite, she opened it cautiously and exited out into the hall.

She walked down the elegant carpeted corridor, feeling better almost immediately. It was like a dark mist disappearing in the heat of the sun. Reaching the central stairway, she made her way down to the public levels of the ship. It was so much cheerier here: people chatted, laughed. More than one man smiled at her as she walked past the shops, cafés, and wine bars: although shy and a little awkward, Inge was attractive, and her Swedish heritage was unmistakable.

She had been working for the old woman for two months now, and it was unlike anything she had anticipated. Orphaned at an early age, she had led a sheltered childhood, growing up in convent schools. When it was time to find a job, she had secured a position as a ladies’ companion through an agency that was affiliated with the convent. It seemed perfect. Her spoken English was impeccable, and the school provided her with excellent references. She had no place to live, and being a companion would provide both room and board. And better yet, traveling with a wealthy lady would allow her to see the outside world she had daydreamed about so often.

But the reality could not have been more different. Her employer was critical of her every move; Inge couldn’t think of a single word of praise she had been given. While she was awake, the old woman required constant attendance and demanded that her every whim be carried out instantly. Inge was not allowed to leave her side. It was like being in prison—with a two-year sentence, based on the contract she’d signed. Her only freedom came late at night, when the woman slept. And she always woke at dawn, querulous and demanding.

Inge wandered through the elegant spaces, drinking in the music, the conversation, the sights and smells. She had a rich imagination—her daydreams were her only escape—but the
Britannia
, at least, lived up to all her hopes. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She stopped outside a grand casino, peering in at the wealthy and powerful as they gambled and carried on in their finery. Seeing such sights made her forget the living hell she endured by day.

She lingered in the doorway a few moments more. Then she roused herself and moved on. It was late now, very late, and she needed to get some sleep herself—the old lady did not allow her to nap or take any breaks. But she would come here again tomorrow night, soaking up the sights—sights to fuel the dreams and fancies that, in turn, would help her make it through the days to come. Dreams of the day when she too could travel in such luxury and elegance, unfettered by poverty or cruelty, when she would have a husband and a closet full of beautiful clothes. And no matter how wealthy she became, she would always speak softly to her servants and treat them with kindness, remembering that they, too, were human beings.

S
PECIAL
A
GENT
P
ENDERGAST GLIDED SILENTLY THROUGH THE
opulent public spaces of the
Britannia
, his silver eyes taking in every possible detail, fixing the layout of the ship in his mind. He had been walking for almost three hours now, through salons and spas and restaurants and pubs and casinos and arcades and vast echoing theaters. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, he blended in with the tuxedo-clad crowds and was conspicuous mainly for his blond-white hair and pallid complexion.

He knew his target was awake and about. At 4 A.M. he finally found him, strolling aimlessly along Deck 7, the highest of the public decks, threading his way through a maze of lounges and galleries, heading amidships. Directly over their heads were close to eleven hundred passenger compartments. In order to earn back the enormous cost of building such a huge and heavily framed vessel, North Star had cut back on single cabins and made all of the seaward passenger accommodations into spacious—and expensive—stateroom suites with private balconies. The balconies required that the staterooms be placed as high in the ship’s superstructure as possible, far above the spume-heavy waterline, thus forcing the public spaces into the lower decks.

The crowds had thinned. The ship was rolling ponderously, deep slow rolls that took several minutes to complete. They were coming from a storm center far to the east. It was quite possible that many of the passengers were regretting the expansive dinners they had enjoyed earlier in the evening. His target appeared to be one of them.

Pendergast paused as he consulted a fold-out map of the ship, now covered with neat annotations of his own. He looked around and saw what he was looking for: a hatchway leading to the promenade deck. Although other levels of the
Britannia
had external patios, public balconies, and pool decks, only Deck 7 had a promenade that encircled the entire vessel. And sure enough, there went his target: the man was opening the hatch and stepping out into the open air.

At the door, Pendergast took a swig of bourbon from a silver hip flask, let it linger briefly in his mouth, then swallowed it, opened the door, and slipped through. He found himself in what seemed like the teeth of a gale. The wind blasted him full in the face, pulling his tie from beneath his jacket and whipping it out behind him. Even though he was eight levels above the surface of the ocean, the air was full of atomized spray. It took him a moment to realize this wasn’t entirely due to the approaching storm; the ship was moving at over thirty miles an hour, which even on a windless sea created its own gale on any exposed deck. It was as the first officer, LeSeur, had said:
A cruise ship will run away from a storm. We don’t divert—we just plough right through
.

He saw his target standing at the rail about fifty yards off, in the lee. Pendergast strode forward, his hand raised in jovial greeting.

“Jason? Jason
Lambe
?”

The man turned. “What?” His face looked green.

Pendergast surged toward him, seized his hand. “By God, it
is
you! I thought I recognized you at dinner! How the hell are you?” He pumped his hand, clasping the man’s left in an enthusiastic greeting, drawing him close.

“Uh, fine.” Jason Lambe did not look at all fine. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”

“Pendergast! Aloysius Pendergast! P.S. 84, Riverdale!” Pendergast clapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, gave an affectionate squeeze while breathing heavily in his face, giving him a good dose of bourbon-breath. Lambe seemed to freeze, flinching and making an effort to disentangle himself from the obnoxious, clinging embrace.

“I don’t remember any Pendergast,” he said dubiously.

“Come on! Jason, think back to the old days! Glee club, varsity basketball!” Another squeeze, harder this time.

Lambe had had enough. With a strenuous effort, he tried to twist from the agent’s limpet-like grasp.