“And tell me what happened last night.”
“I had gone out to dinner by myself and when I was walking back to the hotel, two men started following me. I ran and they chased me. At one point one of them fired a handgun at me. I made it back to the hotel, which was crowded, and they stopped. One of them shouted that the shot was a warning and I was to leave Namibia.”
“You recognized them as two of the guys on that yacht.”
“Yeah, the two with the machine guns.”
“And who knew you were in Namibia?”
“What do you mean, like friends back home and stuff?”
“No, I mean who knew what you were doing here? Did you talk to anyone about your project?”
“We interviewed a great number of local fisherman,” Tony said.
Sloane overrode him. “The idea was to search areas where fishermen lost nets. The seafloor around here is basically an extension of the desert, so I figured anything that could snag a net must be man-made, ergo a shipwreck.”
“Not necessarily,” Juan said.
“We know that now.” Sloane’s voice was laced with defeat. “We flew over a bunch of possibilities with a metal detector and found nothing.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. The currents have had a few million years to expose bedrock projections that could easily catch a net,” Juan said and Sloane nodded. “So you talked to fishermen. Anyone else?”
Her mouth turned downward as she said, “Luka. He acted as a guide but I never much cared for him.
And there was the South African chopper pilot. Pieter DeWitt’s his name. But no one knew why we were asking about nets and we never told Piet or Luka what ship we were looking for.”
“Don’t forget Papa Heinrick and his giant metal snakes,” Tony said tartly. He was trying to further embarrass Sloane.
One of Juan’s eyebrows lifted. “Giant snakes?”
“It’s nothing,” Sloane said. “Just a story we heard from a crazy old fisherman.”
There came a gentle knock on the door. Maurice appeared bearing a plastic tray. Juan had to suppress a smile at the repulsed look on the chief steward’s face.
In a word, Maurice was fastidious, a man who shaved twice a day, polished his shoes each morning, and would change a shirt if he found a crease. He was right at home in the opulent confines of theOregon
, but get him on the public parts of the vessel and he had the look of a Muslim walking into a pigsty.
In deference to the ruse they were playing on their guests he’d removed his suit jacket and tie and had actually rolled up the cuffs of his dress shirt. Although Juan had a complete dossier on every member of the Corporation, the one piece of information even he didn’t know was Maurice’s age. Speculation ran anywhere from sixty-five to eighty. Yet he held the tray aloft on an arm as steady as one of theOregon ’s derricks and set dishes and glasses down without spilling a drop.
“Green tea,” he announced, his English accent catching Tony’s attention. “Dim sum, pot stickers, and lo mein noodles with chicken.” He plucked a folded piece of paper from his apron and handed it to Juan.
“Mr. Hanley asked me to give you this.”
Juan unfolded the note while Maurice set out plates, napkins, and silverware, none of which matched but as least the linens were clean.
Max had written:She’s lying through her teeth.
Juan looked toward the hidden camera. “That’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious?” Sloane asked after taking an approving sip of tea.
“Hmm? My first officer is reminding me that the longer we’re here the later we’re going to be at our next port of call.”
“And where’s that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Thank you, Maurice, that will be all.” The steward bowed out and Cabrillo answered Sloane’s question. “Cape Town. We’re carrying lumber from Brazil en route to Japan, but we’re picking up a couple of containers in Cape Town headed for Mumbai.”
“This really is a tramp steamer, isn’t it?” Sloane asked. It was evident in her voice she was impressed. “I didn’t think any still existed.”
“Not many. Containerization has all but taken over, but there are a few of us picking up crumbs.” He gestured around the dingy dining room. “Unfortunately, the crumbs are getting smaller so we don’t have the money to put back into theOregon . I’m afraid the old girl’s disintegrating around us.”
“Still,” Sloane persisted, “it must be a romantic life.”
The sincerity of how she said it took Juan aback. He had always felt the vagabond existence of a tramp ship roaming from port to port, living almost hand-to-mouth rather than being a cog in the industrial machine that maritime commerce had become was indeed a romantic notion, a way of unhurried life that was virtually gone forever. He smiled and saluted her with his tea. “Yeah, sometimes it is.”
The warmth of her return smile told him they had shared something intimate.
He roused himself to get on with the interview. “Captain Ulenga, do you know anything about metal snakes?”
“No, Cap’ain,” the Namibian said and touched his temple. “Papa Heinrick isn’t right in the head. And when he gets a bottle, well, you don’t want to know him.”
Juan turned his attention back to Sloane. “What was the name of the ship you were looking for?”
It was obvious she was reluctant to give it so he let it pass. “Doesn’t matter. I have no interest in looking for sunken treasure.” He chuckled. “Or giant metal snakes. Is that where you were headed today, the place where this Heinrick fellow saw his snakes?”
Even Sloane realized how ridiculous she had to look in Cabrillo’s eyes because she flushed a little. “It was our last lead. I figured we’d come this far, we might as well see it through. Sounds kinda dumb now.”
“Kinda?” Juan mocked.
Linc knocked on the mess hall’s door frame. “She’s clean, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lincoln.” He’d asked Linc to search thePinguin for contraband, like drugs or weapons, just to be safe. “Captain Ulenga, can you tell me anything about the yacht that attacked you?”
“I’ve seen it at Walvis a couple of times. She comes maybe every month for a year or two. I think she’s from South Africa ’cause only the folks down there can afford such a boat.”
“Never talked to her crew or anyone who knew them?”
“No, sir. They come in, fuel up, and go again.”
Juan leaned back in his chair, cocking an elbow over the seat back. He tried to link the facts together and come up with a coherent explanation but nothing really fit. Certain that Sloane had left out crucial elements from her story, he knew he’d never piece the puzzle together and had to decide how much he wanted to pursue this. Rescuing Geoffrey Merrick remained their top priority, and on that front they had enough problems without adding Sloane Macintyre’s. Still, something nagged him.
Tony Reardon suddenly spoke up. “We’ve told you everything we can, Captain Cabrillo. I would really like to get off your ship. We have a long trip back to port.”
“Yes,” Juan muttered distractedly and refocused his attention. “Yes, of course, Mr. Reardon. I don’t understand why you were attacked. It’s possible that there is a lost ship out here loaded with treasure and you got too close to someone’s operation. If they are working without government permission they very well might have resorted to violence.” He gave Tony and Sloane a frank stare. “If that’s the case, I advise you both to leave Namibia as quickly as you can. You’re both in over your heads.”
Reardon nodded at that advice but Sloane looked like she was going to ignore it. Juan let it go. It wasn’t his concern.
“Mr. Lincoln,” he said, “would you please escort our guests back to their boat. If they need fuel please see that it is taken care of.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The group stood as if on cue. Juan leaned across the table to shake hands with Justus Ulenga and Tony
