Rembrandt's Ghost (10 page)

As Hanson came closer, a man climbed out from the passenger side of the truck cab and stood waiting beside the pile of crates. Hanson saw that all of the crates were stamped with the familiar Slazenger pouncing tiger logo. The man from the truck stepped forward. He was fortyish, flabby, and wore a perfectly cut and blindingly white suit that almost made his pot belly disappear. He had small feet and small hands. The feet were encased in gleaming black patent leather shoes and he wore one too many rings on his pink fingers.

The costume was topped off by a Borsalino Panama as white as the suit. The man wore the formal straw hat with the forced casualness of a bald man, tilted just so, but somehow you knew there was nothing underneath. The eyes were shaded by a slightly feminine-looking pair of leather-covered Fendi Sellerias. There was no facial hair and the faint smell of expensive cologne shimmered in the overheated air. Fat lips smiled. The man had teeth like perfect polished pearls. At five foot five, he should have been almost dainty looking. But he didn’t look dainty at all; he looked dangerous.

“Captain Hanson?” he asked. There was a faint, aristocratic Spanish accent.

“Yes?”

“My name is Lazlo Aragas.” The smile got wider. “My good friends call me Lazzy.”

Hanson nodded. Call this one Lazzy and he’d shove a knitting needle through your eye socket. “Mr. Aragas. What can I do for you?”

“It is what we can do for each other, Captain Hanson.”

“Then what can we do for each other, Mr. Aragas?”

“I have a shipment that needs to go to Singapore,” he said. “I understand that you are going in that direction.”

“A shipment of what?” Hanson asked.

Aragas waved a jeweled hand in the general direction of the crates. “Balls, Captain. I am shipping balls to Singapore.”

“Tennis balls.”

“Quite so. Specifically Wimbledon Ultra Vis.”

Three things were wrong with that. One, the Wimbledon balls were made in the Mariveles factory, but they were shipped out of the superterminal at Pier 15 in Manila. Two, the balls were shipped in six-dozen-can cardboard boxes plastic-strapped in dozen box cubes and loaded into containers, not wooden crates. And three, there wasn’t a chance in the world that Slazenger would ever ship anything at all on the
Batavia Queen
or any tramp steamer like her.

Hanson nodded. “I see.”

“Do you, Captain?”

“I think I do,” he answered slowly.

“What exactly do you see?”

“I see some wooden crates with Slazenger pussycats all over them.”

“Full of tennis balls,” said the man in the white suit, smiling.

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Still smiling.

“Does Dr. Zobel-Ayala know about your tennis balls?” Hanson asked flatly.

Aragas laughed. He sounded like a particularly vicious dog barking.
“Zobel-Ayala tiene el famban barretoso,”
he said pleasantly. “If he doesn’t do as he’s told, I’ll put my foot to it, or something more painful perhaps.”

“So what does all this really have to with me?” Hanson asked carefully. If Aragas was sidestepping
El Abortista,
he was putting them both into dangerous territory.

“I need a shipper. You are here.”

“You and your tennis balls aren’t on my bill of lading.”

“This will be a separate shipment. Just between you and me, Captain.”

“Zobel-Ayala isn’t going to like it.”

“He’ll do as he’s told.”

“Maybe so, Mr. Aragas, but I have to come back here. You may get to kick him in his fat juicy ass, but I’m not in the same position… so to speak.”

“It is not your concern, Captain. Your concern is in loading my shipment as quickly as possible.” There was ice in the words.

“And how do I explain this shipment to the agent in Singapore?”

“You don’t.”

“How’s that?”

“You will develop engine trouble just off Sentosa. An hour or two at most. A fast boat will take my tennis balls off your hands.” Sentosa Island was a redeveloped fishing village turned high-end resort just outside Singapore Harbor.

“Customs, the Checkpoint Authority?”

“Taken care of.”
Mordida
again. The Philippines had made a fine art out of it over the last four hundred years.

“And what do I get out of all of this trouble?” Hanson asked.

“This,” said Aragas. He pulled the inevitable envelope out of his inside jacket pocket. It was about a half inch thick. “Euros, if that is convenient.” Once upon a time it had been American dollars, but things were changing. “Twenty-five thousand.”

Roughly thirty-three thousand dollars depending on the day rate. It didn’t matter. What really mattered was that with the envelope there was no more pretense. You didn’t pay somebody that much money for carting around a couple of hundred crates of tennis balls.

It was a distinctly nasty spot to be in because if Aragas was in a position to sidestep Zobel-Ayala, that meant he was heavily connected. Turn Aragas down and he’d get somebody’s nose out of joint. Or he could take the envelope and go along with Aragas and if things screwed up he could easily land in Changi Prison for the rest of his life—not a pleasant thought at all.

So he was trapped—damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Standing here baking in the hot sun he didn’t see any way out. So he stopped looking, at least for the moment. He took the envelope from Aragas, folded it in half, and stuck it into his back pocket.

“Very good,” said Aragas as though he were speaking to a dog he was training to roll over and play dead. “It would be appreciated if you could have the crates loaded as quickly as possible. As you know, there is a great deal of petty theft in this area.” Anything that wasn’t nailed down was considered fair game, but Hanson had an idea: Aragas could leave his crates just where they were for as long as he wanted and the locals would avoid them like the plague.

“Not a problem,” said Hanson. He glanced up and saw Elisha Santoro casually leaning on the forward rail and looking down at him. Eli wasn’t going to like this at all.

“Good,” said Aragas. “I am very pleased that we have reached an accord on this matter. When you load the crates please make them as available as possible for quick unloading. I shall return at seven this evening.”

“Return?” asked Hanson, startled.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Aragas. “I will be accompanying the shipment to Singapore.” With that, he put two fingers to the brim of his hat, tipped Hanson a brief salute, and climbed back into the truck. The Mitsubishi’s engine chugged to life and it lumbered off down the docks and disappeared. Hanson watched it go, feeling the lump of the envelope in his pocket pressing into him like a tumor.

Eli Santoro came down the gangway and onto the pier. He inspected the crates for a moment, then turned to Hanson. “What was that all about? New cargo?” It wasn’t really a question; Eli had seen Aragas and he’d seen the envelope. He was young but he was no fool.

“Something like that,” said Hanson.

“We in trouble, boss?”

“Maybe.” Hanson looked at his first mate. Elisha Santoro, like everyone else on the
Batavia Queen
, was an outcast. At twenty-eight he was the youngest man on the ship with three years in the U.S. Navy, a First Officer rating from the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy, and two more years in the Coast Guard, stationed in Guam. Then an accident with a backyard barbecue at a base picnic left him blind in one eye—enough for his career to come to a crashing halt with the revoking of his mate’s ticket and no chance of ever becoming a master on his own. At twenty-five Santoro was adrift, broke, and unemployed, wedded to the sea with all his hopes and dreams in tatters.

Hanson had found him bumming around the islands doing yacht charters out of Hong Kong, and after two bottles of Dragon’s Back and a look at the young man’s record he’d snapped him up, eye patch or not. That had been almost three years ago and Hanson hadn’t regretted the decision once.

“What are we going to do?” Eli asked.

“We’re screwed either way.” Hanson sighed. “Load up the tennis balls. Figure it so we can dump the cases quickly if we have to.”

“What do you think is in them?”

“I don’t want to know and neither do you,” the captain warned. “And the man in the ice cream suit is shipping out with us, so be careful.”

“We’ve got another problem.”

“What now?” Hanson groaned; as if the day wasn’t bad enough already. Eli handed over a piece of yellow paper he pulled out of his T-shirt pocket. A cable flimsy. Like everyone aboard the
Queen
the young man did double duty; as well as being the
Batavia Queen
’s first officer, first mate, and quartermaster, Eli was also the radio officer. “Message from the company. The
Queen
’s been sold. We’ll find out who the new owners are when we get to Singapore.”

The
Busted Flush
made the North Sea crossing to Holland in three and a half days, running up the Channel north of Goodwin Sands in fine weather, then beating north beyond the Broad Fourteens to Den Helder. On the third night, they made their way through the tricky currents of the rushing tidal rip of the Marsdeip, finally making landfall at the locks leading into the inland sea once known as the Zuider Zee and now called the Ijsselmeer. They spent the night resting up in the calm waters on the inland side of the immense dike and on the following morning made a swift, sail-cracking run in the bright sunshine down to the little seaside village of Durgerdam. The town had everything they needed including a full-service marina and a bus stop for the ride into Amsterdam itself, only a few miles to the south, its low, dusty skyline faint on the horizon.

For Finn, tense and exhausted after the events in London, sailing on the
Flush
had been a joy. The
Flush
was a William Garden sixty-foot gaff-rigged schooner, powered by a six-cylinder Sealord North Sea diesel and capable of making twelve knots under full sail. Inside she was as cozy as a log cabin in the woods, complete with two comfortable cabins, a small salon, and a well-equipped and well-stored galley. According to Billy, she’d been built as
Sitkin
in Oregon almost fifty years before, meant for cruising the Alaska coast, and had spent time in Chile and South Africa after that as the
San Lourenco
. She’d wound up in England taking tourist charters up the coast of Scotland. At that time she was known as
Sandpiper.
Billy had owned her now for almost eight years.

“A present to myself after all those years at school,” he’d told her. “Perhaps I should have named her the
Graduate
.” According to him they were the best of friends, and from the way Billy handled her as he guided her Nantucket green hull into the sheltered little bay Finn could easily see that his affection for the slightly tubby-looking boat was more like love.

They’d already gone through immigration at Den Helder, and the formalities of berthing at the marina involved no more than registering at the office with the harbormaster and paying the minimum three-day berthing fee. With that done they walked along the dike road that appeared to be the only street in town. Once upon a time it had been a fishing village with small trawlers lined up along the clay and earth dike, but the fishing fleet had disappeared long ago with the creation of the huge dams that had changed the Zuider Zee’s water from salt to fresh. Now the boats along the
Durgerdammerdjik
were mostly pleasure craft and the charming fishermen’s modest homes were either summer homes or bed-and-breakfasts.

“I’m a little wobbly,” said Finn as they walked in the bright morning air. After less than four days she’d developed proper sea legs and heading along the dike was making her feel a little dizzy, the horizon bobbing up and down ahead of her.

“Not a bit seasick, though.” Billy grinned. “Make a sailor out of you yet.”

Finn smiled. Physically she felt wonderful; her skin was softly bronzed and her long hair smelled like salt air. For the first time in months she was enjoying the simple act of breathing. Living in London was worse than New York; it felt as though you were smoking a dozen cigars every day and sometimes she could even feel the particulate pollution on her teeth. She breathed in deeply. The little town smelled like new-mown hay and the sea. The inland sails of a real Dutch windmill whirled slowly in the fields behind the houses. She suddenly felt ravenously hungry.

“I’m starved,” she said.

They found a small hotel called the
Oude Taveerne
halfway along the dike. The plain white clapboard structure stood out from the rest, much larger than the little houses flanking it. There was a patio on one side and a few tables with Heineken umbrellas out front on the pattern brick sidewalk. On the water side of the dike it appeared to have its own dock with a few picnic tables on the grass at the near end. The
Oude Taveerne
looked as though it might have been some commercial enterprise in the past, a chandlery, or perhaps a wealthy merchant’s place of business as well as his home. The only building larger was the seventeenth-century town hall down the way with its domed tower.