The Wheel of Darkness Read online

  “With what?”

  “With—let’s see, what is the expression?—greasing the wheels.”

  Hentoff glanced from Pendergast to Mayles.

  “I’ll consider it,” Mayles muttered.

  “For your sakes,” said Pendergast, “I hope you don’t take too long. Down two hundred thousand pounds in five hours—that’s a rather nasty trend.” He rose with a smile and slipped out of the pit without another word.

  14

  CONSTANCE GREENE DRIFTED DOWN THE BROAD THOROUGHFARE of boutiques and upscale shops on Deck 6 known as St. James’s. Although it was past midnight, the Britannia showed no signs of settling down for the night: beautifully dressed couples strolled along, gazing at the window displays or chatting in low tones. Large vases of fresh flowers lined the passages, and a string quartet could be heard sawing learnedly over the chatter and laughter. The air smelled of lilac, and lavender, and champagne.

  Constance moved slowly on, passing a wine bar, jeweler, and art gallery, the latter featuring original signed prints by Miró, Klee, and Dalí at astronomical prices. Inside the doorway, an ancient woman in a wheelchair was scolding the young blonde woman pushing her. Something about the young woman gave Constance pause: the girl’s downcast eyes and faraway expression, hinting of some private sorrow, could have been her own.

  Past the arcade of St. James’s, a set of ornate double doors opened onto the Grand Atrium: a vast eight-story space in the heart of the ship. Constance stepped up to the railing, glanced first upward, then down. It was a remarkable vista of terraced balconies and sparkling chandeliers and countless vertical rows of lights and exposed elevators of stained glass and crystal. Below, at the King’s Arms restaurant on Deck 2, knots of people were sitting around red leather banquettes, dining on Dover sole, oysters Rockefeller, and tournedos of beef. Waiters and sommeliers wound their way among them, one setting down a plate brimming with delicacies, another bending solicitously over a diner to better hear his request. Tiers of balconies on Decks 3 and 4 overlooking the Atrium held additional tables. The clatter of silverware, the murmur of conversation, the ebb and flow of music, all drifted up to Constance’s ears.

  It was a hothouse atmosphere of luxury and privilege, a huge floating city-palace, the grandest the world had ever seen. And yet Constance remained utterly unmoved. Indeed, there was something repellent to her in all this desperate pursuit of pleasure. How different was this frantic activity, this coarse consumption and anxious attachment to the things of the world, from her life in the monastery. She longed to return.

  Be in the world but not of it.

  Turning away from the railing, she walked over to a nearby elevator bank and ascended to Deck 12. This deck was almost entirely given over to passenger accommodations; while still a picture of elegance, with its thick oriental carpets and gilt-framed landscapes in oils, its atmosphere was much more sedate. She moved forward. Ahead, the corridor ended, making a ninety-degree turn to the left. Straight ahead was the door to her suite, the Tudor, situated at the aft port corner of the ship. Constance began to reach for her passcard, then froze.

  The door to the suite was ajar.

  Instantly, her heart began to beat furiously, as if it had been waiting for just such an event. Her guardian would never have been so careless—it had to be somebody else. It can’t be him, she thought. It can’t. I saw him fall. I saw him die. A part of her knew that her fears were irrational. Yet she could not ease the sudden racing of her heart.

  Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a slender box, snapped it open, and removed a gleaming scalpel from its plush nest. The scalpel he had given her.

  Holding the blade before her, she advanced silently into the stateroom. The main salon of the suite was oval in shape, ending in a large two-story plate-glass window overlooking the black Atlantic roiling far below. One door to the left led to a convenience pantry, another to the right opened onto the room she and Aloysius used as a study. The room was lit by a dim courtesy light. Beyond she could see moonlight painting a glittering trail across the heaving ocean, throwing jewels into the ship’s wake. It illuminated a sofa, two wing chairs, the dining area, a baby grand piano. Twin staircases curved up the walls to the left and right. The left led to Pendergast’s bedroom; the right to Constance’s. Taking another silent step forward, she craned her neck, looking upward.

  The door to her room was ajar. Pale yellow light streamed out from beneath it.

  She took a fresh grip on the knife. Then—slowly, and in complete silence—she crossed the room and began ascending the stairs.

  During the course of the evening, the seas had steadily grown stronger. The slow roll of the ship, once barely perceptible, was becoming distinct. From above and far forward came the long, mournful cry of the ship’s whistle. Sliding one hand up the banister, Constance took slow, careful steps.

  She gained the landing, stepped toward the door. There was no sound from beyond. She paused. Then she violently pushed the door open and darted inside.

  There was a startled cry. Constance whirled toward the sound, knife extended.

  It was the cabin stewardess, the dark-haired woman who had introduced herself earlier. She had been standing by the bookcase, apparently engrossed in the book she had just dropped in surprise. Now she looked at Constance, her expression a mixture of shock, dismay, and fear. Her eyes fastened on the gleaming scalpel.

  “What are you doing here?” Constance demanded.

  The shock was slow to leave the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, miss. Please, I just came in to turn down the beds . . .” she began in her thick Eastern European accent. She continued to stare at the scalpel, terror distorting her face.

  Constance slipped the scalpel back in the case and returned it to her bag. Then she reached for the bedside phone to call security.

  “No!” the woman cried. “Please. They’ll abandon me at next port, leave me in New York with no way of getting home.”

  Constance hesitated, hand on the phone. She eyed the woman warily.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman went on. “I come in to turn down bed, put chocolate on pillow. And then I saw . . . I saw . . .” She pointed at the book she had dropped.

  Constance glanced at it. To her vast surprise, she saw it was the thin volume titled Poems of Akhmatova.

  Constance was not quite sure why she had brought this book along. Its history—and its legacy—was painful to her. Just to look upon it now was difficult. Perhaps she’d carried it as a penitent carries a cilice, hoping to atone for her misjudgment through pain.

  “You like Akhmatova?” she said.

  The woman nodded. “When I came here, I could bring no books. I have missed them. And then, turning down your bed, I saw—I saw yours.” She swallowed.

  Constance continued to gaze at her speculatively. “I have lit my treasured candles,” she quoted Akhmatova. “One by one, to hallow this night.”

  Without taking her eyes from Constance, the woman replied, “With you, who do not come, I wait the birth of the year.”

  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 maid?”

  The woman smiled sadly. “It is the same for a lot of us here. We lose many jobs. Or our countries have few jobs. Everything is corrupt.”

  “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 horrible 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 Britannia resembled none of them. It was quieter, ultramodern, spacious—and curiously unnautical in feeling, with its many computer screens, electronic consoles, dials, and printers. Everything on the bridge was a model of beyond-state-of-the-art technology. What it most resembled, he mused, was the sleek control room of a French nuclear power plant he’d toured the prior year. The helm was now called an “Integrated Bridge System Workstation” and the chart table the “Central Navigation Console.” The wheel itself was a glorious affair in mahogany and polished brass, but it was there only because visiting passengers wanted to see it. The helmsman never touched it—LeSeur sometimes wondered if it was even connected. Instead, the helmsman maneuvered the ship using a set of four joysticks, one for each of the propulsion pods, plus a pair controlling the bow thrusters and midthrusters. The main engine power was controlled with a set of jetliner-style throttles. It was more like a super-sophisticated computer game than a traditional bridge.

  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 Britannia, the greatest ship ever to grace the seven seas.

  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.

  “Barometer still dropping?” Mason asked.

  “Half a point in the last thirty minutes.”

  “Very good. Maintain present heading.”

  LeSeur shot a private glance at the staff captain. Mason never spoke about her age, but he guessed she was forty, maybe forty-one: it was hard to tell sometimes with people who spent their lives at sea. She was tall and statuesque, and attractive in a competent, no-nonsense kind of way. Her face was slightly flushed—perhaps due to the stress of this being her first voyage as staff captain. Her brown hair was short, and she kept it tucked up beneath her captain’s cap. He watched her move across the bridge, glance at a screen or two here, murmur a word to a member of the bridge crew there. In many ways she was the perfect officer: calm and soft-spoken, not dictatorial or petty, demanding without being bossy. She expected a lot of those under her command, but she herself worked harder than anybody. And she exuded a kind of magnetism of reliability and professionalism you found only in the best officers. The crew was devoted to her, and rightly so.

  She wasn’t required on the bridge, and nor was he. But all of them had wanted to be here to share in the first night of the maiden voyage and to watch Mason command. By rights, she should have been the master of the Britannia. What had happened to her had been a shame, a real shame.

  As if on cue, the door to the bridge opened and Commodore Cutter entered. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed. Frames tensed; faces became rigid. The officer of the watch assumed a studious expression. Only Mason seemed unaffected. She returned to the navigation console, glanced out through the bridge windows, spoke quietly to the helmsman.

  Cutter’s role was—at least in theory—largely ceremonial. He was the public
face of the ship, the man the passengers looked up to. To be sure, he was still in charge, but on most ocean liners you rarely saw the captain on the bridge. The actual running of the ship was left to the staff captain.

  It was beginning to seem that this voyage would be different.

  Commodore Cutter stepped forward. He pivoted on one foot, then—hands clasped behind his back—strode along the bridge, first one way, then back, scrutinizing the monitors. He was a short, impressively built man with iron gray hair and a fleshy face, deeply pink even in the subdued light of the bridge. His uniform was never less than immaculate.

  “He’s not altering,” said the officer of the watch to Mason. “CPA nine minutes. He’s on a constant bearing, closing range.”

  A light tension began to build.

  Mason came over and examined the ECDIS. “Radio, hail him on channel 16.”

  “Ship on my starboard bow,” the radio engineer said, “ship on my starboard bow, this is the Britannia, do you read?”

  Unresponsive static.

  “Ship on my starboard bow, are you receiving me?”

  A silent minute passed. Cutter remained rooted to the bridge, hands behind his back, saying nothing—just watching.

  “He’s still not altering,” said the officer of the watch to Mason. “CPA eight minutes and he’s on a collision course.”

  LeSeur was uncomfortably aware that the two ships were approaching at a combined speed of forty-four knots—about fifty miles an hour. If the ULCC supertanker didn’t begin to alter course soon, things would get hairy.