Skeleton Coast - Cussler Clive. Страница 31

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 Reardon. When he grasped Sloane’s she pulled him forward slightly and said, “May I speak to you in private?”

“Of course.” Cabrillo looked at Linc. “Take them to thePinguin . I’ll escort Ms. Macintyre myself.”

They took their seats as soon as the group left. Sloane studied him the way a jeweler inspects a diamond that he is about to cut, looking for the tiniest flaw that could ruin the gem. She came to some sort of decision, leaned forward, and rested her elbows on the table.

“I think you’re a fraud.”

Juan had to suppress a guffaw. “Excuse me,” he finally stammered.

“You. This ship. Your crew. None of it is what it appears to be.”

Cabrillo fought to keep his expression neutral and the blood from draining from his face. In the years since he’d founded the Corporation and started traipsing around the globe on a succession of ships all namedOregon , no one had ever thought they were anything but what they appeared to be. They’d had harbor officials, inspectors of every kind, even a canal pilot on their transits of Panama, and no one had shown the slightest suspicion about the ship or its crew.

She doesn’t know,he thought.She’s fishing. He had to admit to himself that they hadn’t pulled out all the tricks they utilized when they were in port and about to be inspected, but there was no way an untrained person who’d been aboard for all of thirty minutes could see through their carefully laid deception. His heart slowed as he came to this realization.

“Care to explain?” he invited casually.

“The little things, for one. Your helmsman was wearing a Rolex exactly like the one my father had.

That’s a two-thousand-dollar watch. A bit too nice if you guys are as poor as you say.”

“It’s a fake,” Juan replied.

“A knock-off wouldn’t last five minutes in the salt air. I know because I had one when I was a teenager and working on my father’s fishing boat after he retired from the merchant marines.”

Okay, Juan said to himself,she’s not completely untrained when it comes to ships. “Maybe it is real but he got it from a fence who stole it. You’d have to ask him.”

“That’s a possibility,” Sloane said. “But what about your steward? I’ve been working in London for the past five years and recognize English tailoring when I see it. Between his Church’s dress shoes, custom suit pants, and handmade shirt, Maurice was sporting about four thousand dollars’ worth of duds. I doubt he bought them off a fence.”

Juan chuckled, imagining Maurice wearing anything secondhand. “He’s actually richer than Croesus but is—how would the English put it—dotty. He’s the black sheep of an old-money family who has been knocking around the globe since he turned eighteen and got his inheritance. He approached me last year when we were in Mombassa, asked to be our steward, and said we wouldn’t have to pay him. Who was I to turn him down?”

“Right,” Sloane said drawing out the word.

“It’s true, honest.”

“I’ll leave that for now. But what about you and Mr. Lincoln? There aren’t a whole lot of Americans working aboard ships because Asians are willing to do the jobs at a fraction of the wage. If the company who owns this vessel is as tight as you claim, the crew would be Pakistanis or Indonesians.” Juan made to reply but she cut him off. “Let me guess, you work for a pittance, too?”