Beyond the Poseidon Adventure (27 page)

Under the white glare of the television lamps, the story unfolded slowly before the prompting of seventy or more journalists. Rogo had been on an assignment to deliver files of documents from the American government to Athens. No, they were not vital documents. Just sufficiently important to require routine security. No, he had no idea of the contents. The papers were stashed in a small hold off the engine room. He had left the ship when it seemed certain the
Poseidon
was sinking. He returned when he learned it could in fact float for hours. Oh yes, and he regretted pulling a gun on the French helicopter pilot. It was the only way at the time. Yes, he had retrieved the documents and they had been safely delivered.

Then it was Klaas’s turn. He had gone to the distressed liner and boarded her to see if there were any survivors who required help. The other ship, he explained, was the
Komarevo,
a salvage vessel under the command of a Captain Bela. He had insisted on staying on board the
Poseidon
in order to claim salvage rights. Yes, he agreed, it was a tragic miscalculation. The other boat on the scene, he said, was a pleasure yacht that was merely indulging in some ghoulish sight-seeing.

One by one the questions were tidily answered. The young man’s frown was clearing. It was all going beautifully. Rogo explained about Manny Rosen. The poor man had been flung into the water when the ship lurched, and had drowned. Martin had also injured his foot under falling machinery. Martin delightedly put his cleanly bandaged foot on the table for the photographers and said it was nothing really. Then he ran into trouble: Why had he returned with Lieutenant Rogo? He stumbled. “Well, I dunno . . . I guess . . . Well, we sat at the same table.” There was an incredulous silence.

“You went back because you shared the same table?” The young man’s fingers locked tightly on his knee.

Rogo took up the question. He leaned forward and fixed the reporter with his best, open-eyed, move-along stare, and said, “I asked Rosen and Martin to help me. It was a tough spot. I couldn’t call a patrol car. He came ’cause he’s got guts and he’s too modest to say so. Okay?” It was sufficient. Rogo’s authority and the offer of a romantic angle was quite enough to satisfy them.

The young man relaxed and revised his opinion about New York policemen.

They romped through the rest of the questions. “Lieutenant, what’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get back home?”

“Check up on what you guys write,” came the answer, and a murmur of amusement greeted the typical tough talk.

“What if they call you a hero?”

Rogo shook his head. “The only hero,” he said, “is the guy who’s been standing in for me back home.”

The lights dimmed, and soon they were all shuffling out, sticking pencils and notebooks in pockets. “Lieutenant, I want to thank you,” the young man said. “You should be on Broadway.”

“I am,” said Rogo, with one of his more ferocious scowls. “Only I don’t get my name in lights. And can I give you a tip, fella? A word of advice from an old dumb cop? Don’t wear those goddamn shades—a kid of ten would know what you’re about.”

Under the dark glasses, the cheeks pinkened.

Then one of the reporters called out a last-minute question. “Hey, lieutenant, one more thing please. On the television footage there was one shot where it looked like there was a guy in blue jeans with you. Was that right? And if so who was he?”

They were all looking at Rogo. He appeared to be fascinated by the question. “A guy in blue jeans. Hell, I wouldn’t know about that. Maybe it was Batman.” The roar of laughter ended the questioning and they all trooped out.

In the street, one reporter caught another’s arm. “Hey, just a minute,” he said. “What was the name of that little guy with the smashed foot?”

“Martin,” came the reply. “I think it was John Martin.”

Inside, Rogo drummed thick fingers on the table and grinned at his own joke. Hell, Jason would have loved that. Perhaps he’d see it in a newspaper somewhere.

He got up and strolled over to the window. Funny guy, he thought. Kinda grew on you. He wondered where he was now. He remembered the final scene when they had parted. They had all gone up on deck to say good-bye, and as they shivered in the night’s cold it seemed strange to be separating after the concentrated intimacy of their few hours on the
Poseidon.
Somehow it had become a solemn moment. The handshakes, the “Take care” and “Watch yourself, pal.” Coby’s tears when he kissed her cheek. Then that private moment when his eyes met Rogo’s and he said, “I never thought I’d take advice from a dumb cop, but thanks all the same, Rogo.” He had just mumbled a few embarrassed words himself. His moment had come when Jason was about to pull at the oars. Rogo relished the memory of that again.

“Hey, Jason,” he had called. “Check your sandwich can.”

He saw Jason’s questioning glance as he reached for the can Coby had packed with food. The lid came off and the bright moonlight shivered on that shining ingot.

Jason whistled. “I thought your government wanted its gold back?”

“What gold? It all sank. Remember? Buy yourself a new boat, huh?”

Then his shape had merged with the shifting shadows of the sea and they could only hear his reply, “Okay. And I’ll call it the Dumb Cop.”

Their laughter met and merged over the water. Then it was silent again. That, thought Rogo, was one helluva way to start a New Year.

There is a point where the politics of business and the business of politics blur and fuse. There is a time, too, when boardroom faces begin to look the same. Their words, in Greek or English, ring with the clear innocence of simple trade, but, like ocean liners, they may carry a deadly, unseen cargo.

So it could have been Haven or Stasiris who presented a shiningly benign face to his now untousled, unruffled audience.

“Gentlemen,” said Stasiris, or perhaps Haven, “I have the pleasure to report that the operation has been brought to an entirely satisfactory conclusion.”

Relief relaxed their shoulders, took the tension out of their necks, and unlocked tightly clasped fingers. The sigh was almost orgasmic.

“The facts,” continued the Greek or American, “are these. The seismographic station on Malta reports that an underwater volcano which must have caused the original tidal wave erupted this morning and blew the
Poseidon
to pieces. There is now a new island in the sea where the liner lay.”

He paused to savor the pleasure of that moment. Then Stasiris added, “You will share with me a sense of sadness that the gallant Captain Bela, who was in charge of the operation on our behalf, died in that explosion. So, too, regrettably, did all his crew.”

He paused again. “However, we must balance that against our pleasure that Michael Rogo, the policeman, and other survivors have been saved . . .” He held up a firm hand to silence the first murmurs of doubts. “And, my friends, he was met in Athens by a representative of the American government who impressed upon him the need for discretion in this matter.

“He cooperated, of course, as any good policeman would. The world’s press has been given an acceptable account of the incident which will cause embarrassment to no one. Turkey will not have any reason to be offended. Our Greek Cypriot friends might have to wait a little longer. If the American government wishes to repeat the attempt to help an ally with some form of loan, they will no doubt exercise greater caution in the future.”

A delighted hum erupted from the smiling faces around the table greeting his last words.

“And, most important of all, the cargo was completely destroyed. Not one bar . . . I apologize, gentlemen. Not one item of the shipment survived the blast.”

It was worth saying again. “Not one.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Paul Gallico was the author of twenty-seven previous novels, twelve books of nonfiction, and four books for children. Among his best-known works are his wonderful fables,
The Snow Goose
and
Miracle in the Wilderness,
the Mrs. ’Arris books,
The Zoo Gang,
and
The Poseidon Adventure.
Born July 26, 1897 – Died July 15, 1976