.”
Without taking her eyes from Constance, the woman replied, “
”
Constance stepped back from the phone.
“Back home, in Belarus, I taught the poetry of Akhmatova,” the woman said.
“High school?”
The woman shook her head. “University. In Russian, of course.”
“You’re a professor?” Constance asked, surprised.
“I was. I lost my job—as did many others.”
“And now you work on board . . . as a
“Your family?”
“My parents had a farm, but it was taken away by the government because of the fallout. From Chernobyl. The plume drifted west, you see. For ten years I taught Russian literature at university. But then I lost my position. Later I heard of work on the big boats. So I come here to work, send money home.” She shook her head bitterly.
Constance took a seat in a nearby chair. “What’s your name?”
“Marya Kazulin.”
“Marya, I am willing to forget this breach of privacy. But in return, I would like your help.”
The woman’s expression grew guarded. “How can I possibly help you?”
“I would like to be able to go belowdecks from time to time, chat with the workers, the stewards, the various members of the crew. Ask a few questions. You could introduce me, vouch for me.”
“Questions?” the woman became alarmed. “You work for the shipping line?”
Constance shook her head. “No. I have my reasons, personal reasons. Nothing involving the company or the ship. Forgive me if I’m not more specific at this point.”
Marya Kazulin seemed to relax slightly, but she said nothing. “This could get me into trouble.”
“I’ll be very discreet. I just want to mingle, ask a few questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About life on board the ship, any unusual goings-on, gossip about the passengers. And whether or not anyone has seen a specific item in one of the cabins.”
“Passengers? I do not think this is good idea.”
Constance hesitated. “Ms. Kazulin, I’ll tell you what it’s about, if you promise not to speak of this to anyone.”
After a hesitation, the maid nodded.
“I’m looking for something hidden on board the ship. An object, sacred and very rare. I was hoping to mingle with the housekeeping staff, to see if anyone has seen something like it in a stateroom.”
“And this item you mention? What is it?”
Constance paused. “It’s a long, narrow box, made of wood, very old, with odd writing on it.”
Marya considered this a moment. Then she straightened up. “Then I will help you.” She smiled, her face betraying a certain excitement. “It is
to work on cruise ship. This make it more interesting. And it for good cause.” Constance held out her hand and they shook.
Marya eyed her. “I will get you uniform like mine.” She waved a hand over her front. “You cannot be seen below the waterline dressed as passenger.”
“Thank you. How will I contact you?”
“I will contact you,” Marya said. She knelt, retrieved the book, and handed it to Constance. “Good night, miss.”
Constance held her hand for a moment, and pressed the book into it. “Take it. And please don’t call me ‘miss.’ My name is Constance.”
With a fleeting smile, Marya retreated toward the door and let herself out.
15
FIRST OFFICER GORDON LESEUR HAD SERVED ON DOZENS OF SHIP’S bridges in his career at sea, from admiralty cutters to destroyers to cruise ships. The bridge of the
Below the huge row of windows that stretched from port to starboard, a bank of dozens of computer workstations controlled and relayed information about all aspects of the ship and its environment: engines, fire suppression systems, watertight integrity monitors, communications, weather maps, satellite displays, countless others. There were two chart tables, neatly laid out with nautical charts, which nobody seemed to use.
Nobody except him, that is.
LeSeur glanced at his watch: twenty minutes past midnight. He glanced out through the forward windows. The huge ship’s blaze of light illuminated the black ocean for hundreds of yards on all sides, but the sea itself was so far below—fourteen decks—that if it were not for the deep, slow roll of the vessel they might just as well have been atop a skyscraper. Beyond the circle of light lay dark night, the sea horizon barely discernible. Long ago they had passed the slow pulsing of Falmouth Light, and shortly thereafter Penzance Light. Now, open ocean until New York.
The bridge had been fully manned since the Southampton pilot, who had guided the ship out of the channel, had departed. Overmanned, even. All the deck officers wanted to be part of the first leg of the maiden voyage of the
Carol Mason, the staff captain, spoke to the officer of the watch in a voice as quiet as the bridge itself. “Current state, Mr. Vigo?” It was a pro forma question—the new marine electronics gave the information in continuous readouts for all to see. But Mason was traditional and, above all, punctilious.
“Under way at twenty-seven knots on a course of two five two true, light traffic, sea state three, wind is light and from the port quarter. There is a tidal stream of just over one knot from the northeast.”
One of the bridge wing lookouts spoke to the officer of the watch. “There’s a ship about four points on the starboard bow, sir.”
LeSeur glanced at the ECDIS and saw the echo.
“Have you got it, Mr. Vigo?” asked Mason.
“I’ve been tracking it, sir. It looks like a ULCC, under way at twenty knots, twelve miles off. On a crossing course.”
There was no sense of alarm. LeSeur knew they were the stand-on ship, the ship with the right of way, and there was plenty of time for the give-way ship to alter course.
“Let me know when it alters, Mr. Vigo.”
“Yes, sir.”
It always sounded odd in LeSeur’s ear to hear a female captain addressed as “sir,” although he knew it was standard protocol both in the navy and in civilian shipboard life. There were, after all, so few female captains.
