questioned by someone with a badge were only too happy to spill everything they knew to the first journalist who came strolling along — especially one who was an attractive woman. Besides, flashing her American FBI credentials in a Norwegian port city was far more likely to generate the kind of official interest they wanted to avoid.
The airport hotel they’d checked into immediately after arriving in Oslo catered largely to international businessmen. Its facilities included a fully equipped computer center — complete with PCS for rent, laser printers, and the latest software. So an hour’s work with some word processing and graphics programs had produced a small set of what appeared to be professionally printed business cards for each of them — Helen’s as a journalist and Peter’s as a photographer.
“You are a reporter?” The young Norwegian dockworker seemed curious, and a little interested, although she couldn’t tell if he was responding to her smile or her occupation.
“I’m doing a story on a tramp freighter that sailed from here to Russia a week ago. Have you heard of the Star of the White Sea? She was moored at Pier 91A.” Helen and Peter had spent the afternoon puzzling over back issues of the local newspaper’s Shipping News section to dig up that piece of information.
“So? What is so special, this ship?” The man was interested, but seemed cautious.
Helen ignored his question and pressed on. Telling him that the entire crew had been murdered might make him clam up altogether.
“I just want to talk to men who might have seen her.”
She let the corners of three hundred-kronr notes show in her hand. At current exchange rates, that was worth about fifty dollars enough to loosen a few tongues without raising too many eyebrows, she judged.
He waved it back. “Knut and Fredrik, they work on the docks. I am inside, in a warehouse.” He fired a string of Norwegian at a pair of men sitting three tables over. They perked up, obviously curious about the attractive foreigner, and answered.
The first man broke off the conversation after about three exchanges and turned back to Helen. “I am sorry. They do not know this ship.”
She smiled again. “That’s all right. But do you know anyone else we can ask? It would be a real help to my story. We could even take his picture for the article,” she added, gesturing to her photographer.
Peter fiddled with the Canon’s lens, trying to look professional.
The Norwegian looked around, then asked another older man, and then another group of three. All replied, “Nei.”
He shrugged and smiled at Helen. “I am sorry.”
Helen smiled back, grateful for his efforts. “Never mind. Thank you anyway.”
Peter had already gotten up. She turned toward the door, then changed her mind and went over to the bar. The Viking bartender took the bill she offered, and evidently understood her instructions to get her translator another beer and make it the best he had. No point in leaving sour feelings behind them.
Once outside on the street again, they turned toward the harbor.
Helen shook her head. “Well, that was a bust.”
“Isn’t this what you law enforcement types call legwork?” Peter asked.
He shrugged. “Hell, we knew this wasn’t going to be fast, Helen. This place must see dozens of ships come and go in the space of a week. Finding some of the guys who unloaded the Star, and who remember doing it, could take some time.”
She drew a deep breath. “Yeah, I know. I just think of how easy it would have been to go straight to the port authorities, flash my badge, and ask to see the Star of the White Sea’s cargo manifests.”
“We can still do that. You’re still an FBI agent,” Peter reminded her.
Helen grimaced. “Jesus, I get bad vibes at the thought. The last time we went barreling into a harbormaster’s office, we got shot at.”
They went on to another tavern, misnamed the Grand Cafe Smaller than the Akershus, its clientele was similar. Workingmen gathered around tables to play cards and drink. This time, Helen was immediately successful in finding someone who spoke English.
Arne Haukelid was a college student, studying literature, who’d taken a job at the docks to earn money between semesters.
He also watched the news, and was well versed on current affairs.
“You want to know if any of us saw the Star of the White Sea, Miss Anderson? The one where they killed everyone and they found the drugs?”
His voice carried in the quiet room, and Helen winced inwardly, then remembered Haukelid was still speaking English.
The young Norwegian let her buy him a beer, then circulated around the room, asking here and there. She couldn’t follow the conversations, but headshakes and “Nei” were easy to understand.
Another bust.
Peter and Helen left the Grand Cafe and headed for another bar, Ole Bull, and after that a place called Sjoboden. By this time it was almost ten at night, and she was getting worried that anyone with a day job would be heading home.
Sjoboden was another pub with nautical decorations scattered around.
It looked a little rougher than the other places they’d been in, but it was also the most crowded, nearly filled with strong-looking men.
The buzz of conversation did not change when Peter and Helen entered, and a few of the dockworkers, sizing Helen up, even greeted her with “Goddag” and a smile. It looked to her like they’d had more than a few beers, but they still had an eye for a pretty woman.
One of them spoke English, but to Helen’s consternation he’d heard all about the Star of the White Sea, and the fate of her crew.
To her relief, though, her informant knew someone who actually helped unload her.
He pointed to a pair of men who willingly made room at their table for Helen and Peter when they came over. She let the conversation run on for a while, hoping to steer the talk in a useful direction.
The oldest, Olaf Syverstad, had the most to say. “This is a bad business. We haven’t had too much drugs here. But soon these criminals and smugglers will be squeezing us.”
In his sixties, Olaf was concerned more for his son, Karl, who still worked at the docks.
Karl Syverstad had been translating for his father, and was delighted to have a chance to practice his English. Blond like his father, Karl’s back and shoulders were as broad as a house. He’d been a longshoreman for five years.
“Ja, I worry now. Now that I know what is going on. Then, I liked working on the Star. They paid us overtime to stand by, and unload her as soon as she came.”
“What did she carry?” asked Helen.
“Mostly scrap metal and fish,” the younger Syverstad answered.
“And they were in a hurry to unload that?” Helen didn’t have to act puzzled.
“Not all of it,” the big Norwegian said. “There were five metal crates that came off first. They went straight across the pier to another ship, and that ship left right away — less than an hour, I think.”
“What ship was that?” Helen forced herself not to sound too eager.
Her story was supposed to be about the murders on the Star.
“Baltic Venturer. She was bound for Wilhelmshaven. In Germany.”’ “How do you know that?” Helen asked.
“It was her home port. Painted on her stern. And I heard the crew talking.”
Helen looked over at Peter, who was listening intently, but seemed content to let her do the talking. She continued. “So you only saw them unloading scrap metal, fish, and these crates?” She held out her hands, as if to describe the size of a box.
The younger Syverstad nodded. “Ja, pretty much. But those crates were big things, big enough for an auto maybe.”
Bingo, Helen thought. His description matched the rough sizes of the Su-24 engines Serov had showed them. She leaned forward. “And what did the Star carry back to Russia?”
The Norwegian shook his head. “Nothing, she went back empty. I was on her for two days unloading. I saw nothing.”
