The Wheel of Darkness Page 12

  “Why?” Kemper asked. “Each suite is equipped with its own safe. If what you say is really true, the thief wouldn’t stash the thing there.”

  “The object is over four feet long. That makes it too large for in-room safes, other than the ones in the very largest suites.”

  LeSeur frowned. “Let’s make this brief. Mr. Pendergast: you can look, but you are not to touch. Mr. Kemper, get one of your men in here, please. I’d like three pairs of eyes to witness this.”

  They passed the security station and went down a short corridor, which dead-ended in an unmarked door. The first officer reached into his pocket, pulled out a key on a steel chain, and unlocked the door. Kemper swung it open and they entered.

  Although the room beyond was small, the rear wall was completely taken up by a massive circular vault door of polished steel. LeSeur waited while one of the guards from the security station entered the room. Then, extracting another key from his pocket, he inserted it into a lock in the vault door. This was followed by an identity card slipped into a card reader to one side of the safe. Next, LeSeur pressed his palm into a hand geometry scanner beside the card slot. There was a metallic thunk and a red light above the door went on.

  LeSeur walked to a large combination dial set into the far side of the vault door. Shielding the dial from the other occupants of the room, he spun it left and right several times. The light above the door turned green; the first officer turned a wheel set in its center, then pulled it toward him, and the massive door swung open.

  The interior was illuminated in a watery green light. Beyond the door lay a chamber about twelve feet square. The rear part of the vault was secured by a steel curtain, behind which lay numerous metal boxes, racked in sliding frames, shoulder high. The two facing walls were covered in safe doors, some quite large, their flush front panels gleaming dully in the pale light. Each had a key slot in its center, with a number etched into the steel directly above.

  “A safe of safes,” said Pendergast. “Most impressive.”

  “Right,” said LeSeur. “Who are we looking for?”

  Pendergast pulled the sheet out of his pocket. “The first is Edward Robert Smecker, Lord Cliveburgh.” He paused for a second, reading. “It seems that once his ancestral fortune was exhausted, he resorted to creative ways to make ends meet. Hangs out with the jet set, makes the rounds of Monaco, St. Tropez, Capri, and the Costa Smeralda. Jewelry tends to disappear when he’s around. None of the jewelry he supposedly stole was ever recovered, and he’s beaten every rap. It is assumed he recuts the gems and melts down the metal for bullion.”

  The first officer turned to a terminal in the near wall, typed briefly on its keyboard. “That would be number 236.” He walked over to a small safe. “This isn’t big enough for the object you mention.”

  “Perhaps the object’s profile can be reduced in size by cutting or folding. If you’d be so good as to open it?”

  With an almost imperceptible tightening of the lips, LeSeur inserted a key and turned it. The door swung open to reveal a large aluminum suitcase with a dial lock.

  “Interesting,” Pendergast said. He prowled around the open door for a moment, rather catlike himself. Then he reached out and, with utmost delicacy, began turning the dials, one after the other, with a long, spidery finger.

  “Just a minute!” Kemper cried. “I told you, touch nothing—”

  “Ah!” Pendergast raised the lid on the suitcase. Inside were many bricks of aluminum foil and cellophane wrap, each coated with a thick layer of wax.

  “Oh, Jesus,” said Kemper. “I hope this isn’t what it looks like.” He slipped a penknife out of his pocket, stabbed it through the layers of wax and foil, and drew it down, revealing a crusty white powder. He reached in, dabbed a fingertip into the powder, took a taste.

  “Cocaine,” he said.

  “It would appear,” Pendergast murmured, “our good Lord Cliveburgh has started a new and even more lucrative business venture.”

  “What do we do?” said LeSeur, staring at the white powder.

  “Nothing, for now,” said Kemper, shutting the suitcase and spinning the dial. “Believe me, this isn’t going anywhere. We’ll radio ahead to U.S. Customs. When we come into port, Cliveburgh will collect his trunk and they’ll nail him quayside with the stuff—off the ship.”

  “Very well,” said LeSeur. “But how will we explain that we opened—?”

  “We don’t need to,” said Kemper grimly. “Leave the details me.”

  “What a stroke of luck,” said Pendergast cheerfully, as the gloom deepened in the room. “It seems rather fortunate I came along!”

  No one else seemed to share his view in this matter.

  “Next on my list is the movie star, Claude Dallas.”

  LeSeur noticed that Kemper had begun to sweat. If this ever got out . . . He turned to the terminal without bringing the thought to completion. “Number 822.”

  They approached a larger vault. “Promising,” murmured Pendergast.

  LeSeur opened it with his key. Inside were several old steamer trunks, covered with stickers for such destinations as Rio de Janeiro, Phuket, and Goa. The hasps were protected by fist-sized padlocks.

  “Hmm,” Pendergast said. He bent before the trunk, massaging his chin curiously.

  “Mr. Pendergast,” the security chief said in a warning tone.

  Pendergast reached out two lean hands, one of which held a tiny, gleaming tool; he massaged the lock, turning it between his fingers. It sprang open with a click.

  “Mr. Dallas should have this lock replaced,” he said. And before Kemper or LeSeur could object, he swung it away, opened the hasp, and raised the lid.

  A rubber suit lay on top, along with some braided horsehair whips, chains, manacles, ropes, and various leather and iron devices of an obscure nature.

  “How curious,” said Pendergast, reaching in. This time LeSeur said nothing as Pendergast pulled out a Lycra Superman cape and suit, with the crotch cut out. He examined it carefully, plucked something from the shoulder, placed it in a test tube that seemed to appear from nowhere and disappear into nowhere, and then gently laid the garment back down. “I’m not sure it’s necessary to check Mr. Dallas’s other boxes.”

  “It is certainly not necessary,” said LeSeur dryly.

  “And last,” Pendergast said, “is Felix Strage, chairman of the Greek and Roman department at the Met. He is returning from a rather unpleasant trip to Italy, where he was questioned by the Italian authorities over some purchases his museum made back in the 1980s of illegally acquired antiquities.”

  LeSeur gave Pendergast a long, hard look. Then he turned back to the keyboard. “Number 597,” he said. “Before I open the safe, let’s get one thing straight. Keep your hands off. Mr. Wadle here will do the handling.” He nodded to the guard. “If you open any of the contents, this fact-finding mission of yours will end abruptly and prematurely. Understood?”

  “Perfectly,” the agent replied good-naturedly.

  LeSeur moved to a safe on the lowest tier of the right wall, one of the largest in the entire vault. He paused, fishing for a different key. Then he knelt, unlocked the steel door, and pulled it open. Inside were three massive, squat wooden crates. The safe was quite deep, and the light was too dim to make the objects out with any success.

  Pendergast stared at the crates a moment, motionless. He turned and slipped a screwdriver out of his pocket. “Mr. Wadle?”

  The security guard looked with uncertainty at Kemper, who nodded curtly.

  Wadle took the screwdriver and unscrewed the side of the crate—eight screws in all—and then removed it. Inside was bubble wrap and foam-in-place. He eased aside the bubble wrap and removed two blocks of foam to reveal the side of a Greek vase.

  Pendergast slipped a penlight from his pocket and shined it into the open crate. “Hmm. We seem to have a calyx-crater. Undoubtedly genuine. It seems our Dr. Strage is up to his old tricks, smuggling more antiquities for his museum.” He str
aightened up, replacing the penlight in his pocket. He stepped back from the wall of safes. “Thank you for your time and patience, gentlemen.”

  LeSeur nodded. Kemper said nothing.

  “And now, forgive me if I leave in haste.” And with that he bowed, turned, and stepped out of the vault.

  In the elevator, ascending to Deck 12, Pendergast paused to remove the list from his pocket. He drew a line through Lord Cliveburgh and another through Dallas. He did not draw a line through Strage.

  20

  CONSTANCE GREENE WALKED DOWN THE ELEGANT CORRIDOR, Marya Kazulin at her side. She felt an unaccustomed thrill—the thrill of mystery, deceit, and investigation.

  “The uniform fits you perfectly,” Kazulin whispered in her thick accent.

  “Thank you for bringing it to my suite.”

  “Is nothing. Uniforms are the only thing we have in plenty. Except for dirty laundry maybe.”

  “I’m unfamiliar with this type of shoe.”

  “Work shoes. The kind that nurses wear. They have a soft sole, like sneakers.”

  “Sneakers?”

  “Is that not the word?” Marya frowned. “Now remember, as cabin steward you are not to speak to passengers except when in their cabins on business. Do not make eye contact with anyone we pass. Step to one side and look down.”

  “Understood.”

  Marya led the way around a corner, then through an unmarked hatchway. Beyond lay a linen room and a bank of two service elevators. Marya walked up to the elevators, pressed the down button. “Who is it you wish to speak to?”

  “The people who clean the large suites, the duplexes and triplexes.”

  “They are the ones who speak better English. Like me.”

  The elevator doors slid open and they entered. “Some of the workers don’t speak English?” Constance asked.

  Marya pressed the button for Deck C and the elevator began to descend. “Most of the crew speak no English. The company likes it better that way.”

  “Cheaper labor?”

  “Yes. Also, if we cannot speak to each other, we cannot form union. Cannot protest work conditions.”

  “What’s wrong with the work conditions?”

  “You shall see for yourself, Ms. Greene. Now, you must be very careful. If you are caught, I will be fired and put off ship in New York. You must pretend to be foreign, speak broken English. We must find you a language nobody else speaks so you will not be questioned. Do you have any language other than English?”

  “Yes. Italian, French, Latin, Greek, German—”

  Marya laughed, genuinely this time. “Stop. I think no Germans in crew. You will be German.”

  The doors slipped open onto Deck C and they stepped out. The difference between the passenger decks and the service decks was apparent immediately. There was no carpeting on the floor, artwork on the walls, or brightwork trim. It looked more like a hospital corridor, a claustrophobic landscape of metal and linoleum. Fluorescent tubes, hidden behind recessed ceiling panels, threw a harsh light over the scene. The air was stuffy and uncomfortably warm, freighted with numerous scents: cooked fish, fabric softener, machine oil. The deep thrum of the diesel engines was far more pronounced here. Crew members, some in uniform, some in T-shirts or dirty sweats, bustled past, intent on their duties.

  Marya led the way down the narrow corridor. Numbered, windowless doors of imitation wood grain lined both sides. “This is dormitory deck,” Marya explained in a low voice. “Women in my bunk do some large cabins, you speak with them. We say you are friend I met in laundry. Remember, you are German and your English is not good.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “We need reason why you ask questions.”

  Constance thought a moment. “What if I say I do the smaller rooms and want to better my position?”

  “Okay. But do not be too eager—people here will stab you in back for a job with better tips.”

  “Understood.”

  Marya turned down another corridor, then stopped before a door. “This my room,” she said. “Ready?”

  Constance nodded. Marya took a deep breath, then opened the door.

  The room beyond was as small as a prison cell, perhaps fourteen feet by ten. Six narrow lockers were set into the far wall. There were no chairs or tables, no adjoining bath. The walls to the left and right were occupied entirely by spartan bunks, set three high. At the head of each bunk was a small shelf, topped by a light. As Constance looked around, she noticed that each of these shelves was filled with books, photos of loved ones, dried flowers, magazines—a small, sad imprint of the individual who occupied the bunk.

  “There are six of you in here?” she asked incredulously.

  Marya nodded.

  “I had no idea conditions were so cramped.”

  “This nothing. You should see Deck E, where the NPC staff sleep.”

  “NPC?”

  “No Passenger Contact. Crew who do laundry, wash engine rooms, prepare food.” Marya shook her head. “Like prison. They no see daylight, no breathe fresh air, for three, four months maybe. Work six days week, ten hours a day. Pay is twenty to forty dollars a day.”

  “But that’s less than minimum wage!”

  “Minimum wage where? We are nowhere—in middle of sea. No wage law here. Ship registered in Liberia.” She looked around. “My bunkmates in mess already. We find them there.”

  She traced a circuitous path through the narrow, sweat-fragrant corridors, Constance close behind. The crew dining area was located amidships, a large, low-ceilinged room. Crew members, all in uniform, sat at long cafeteria-style tables, heads bent over their plates. As they took their places in the buffet line, Constance looked around, shocked at the plainness of the room—so very different from the opulent dining rooms and grand salons the passengers enjoyed.

  “It’s so quiet,” she said. “Why aren’t people talking?”

  “Everyone tired. Also, everyone upset about Juanita. Maid who went crazy.”

  “Crazy? What happened?”

  She shook her head. “Is not uncommon, except it usually happen at end of long tour. Juanita go crazy . . . rip out own eyes.”

  “Good God. Did you know her?”

  “A little.”

  “Did she seem to have any problems?”

  “We all of us have problems,” Marya said, quite seriously. “Otherwise not take this job.”

  They made their lunch choices from an unappetizing variety—fatty slices of boiled corned beef, waterlogged cabbage, mushy rice, gluey shepherd’s pie, anemic-looking squares of yellow sheet cake—and Marya led the way to a nearby table, where two of her bunkmates picked listlessly at their plates. Marya made the introductions: a young, dark-haired Greek woman named Nika, and Lourdes, a middle-aged Filipina.

  “I have not seen you before,” Nika said in a thick accent.

  “I’m assigned to cabins on Deck 8,” Constance replied, careful to add a German accent of her own.

  The woman nodded. “You must be careful. This isn’t your mess. Don’t let her see you.” She nodded toward a short, hirsute, thickset woman with frizzy bottle-blonde hair, standing in a far corner and surveying the room with a scowl.

  The women made small talk in a strange mixture of languages with a lot of English words thrown in, apparently the lingua franca of the Britannia’s service decks. Most of it focused on the maid who had gone crazy and mutilated herself.

  “Where is she now?” Constance asked. “Did they medevac her off the ship?”

  “Too far from land for a helicopter,” said Nika. “They lock her in infirmary. And now I have to do half her rooms.” She scowled. “Juanita, I knew she was heading for trouble. She is always talking about what she see in the passengers’ rooms, poking her nose where it not belong. A good maid sees nothing, remembers nothing, just does her job and keeps her mouth shut.”

  Constance wondered if Nika ever took her own advice on the latter point.

  Nika went on. “Yesterday, how she talk a
t lunch! All about that stateroom with the leather straps on bed and vibrator in drawer. What is she doing looking in drawer? Curiosity killed the cat. And now I have to clean half her rooms. This Jonah ship.”

  Her mouth set firmly into an expression of disapproval and she sat back and crossed her arms, point made.

  There were murmurs and nods of agreement.

  Nika, encouraged, uncrossed her arms and opened her mouth again. “Passenger disappear too on ship. You hear that? Maybe she is a jumper. This Jonah ship, I tell you!”

  Constance spoke quickly to stem the flow of words. “Marya tells me you work in the larger cabins,” she said. “You’re lucky—I just have the standard suites.”

  “Lucky?” Nika looked at her incredulously. “For me is twice as much work.”

  “But the tips are better, right?”

  Nika scoffed. “The rich ones give you smallest tips of all. They always complain, want everything just so. That ryparóç in the triplex, he make me come back three times today to remake his bed.”

  This was a piece of luck. One of the people on Pendergast’s list—Scott Blackburn, the dot-com billionaire—had taken one of only two triplex suites. “Do you mean Mr. Blackburn?” she asked.

  Nika shook her head. “No. Blackburn even worse! Has own maid, she get linens herself. Maid treat me like dirt, like I her maid. I have to take that triplex also, thanks to Juanita.”

  “He brought his own maid along?” Constance asked. “Why?”

  “He bring everything along! Own bed, own rugs, own statues, own paintings, own piano even.” Nika shook her head. “Bah! Ugly things, too: ugly and ryparóç.”

  “I’m sorry?” Constance feigned ignorance of the word.

  “Rich people crazy.” Nika cursed again in Greek.

  “How about his friend, Terrence Calderón, next door?”

  “Him! He okay. Give me okay tip.”

  “You clean his stateroom, as well? Did he bring his own things?”