The QE2 Is Missing

“Found you at last,” Frances said coming up the ladder from the first deck below.

“I thought you were taking a nap?”

“I was. But I woke up feeling all trapped and claustrophobic with the curtains closed and the air-conditioning puffing away. Had some ghastly dreams.”

“You should have retired earlier. No one said you had to stay up until four watching me lose at blackjack.”

“But you were winning! You were over two hundred quid ahead. My hero!”

“That’s when your moronic hero should have called it quits. I ended up over thirty pounds down.”

“Never mind, lover, it was a wonderful experience. And I could also enjoy myself watching those slimy Nazis losing money at the roulette table. It was like something out of a bad movie, all that nattering in German, slamming the table when they lost — even that one who kept twisting his monocle around and around. Is that a drop of rain I felt?”

“It was. And that was one of his friends — and here comes a lot more.”

They hurried to the door and pulled it open, were barely inside when the heavens opened up and the rain thundered onto the wooden deck behind them. The Lido Bar was deserted, with just the barman, Sean, carefully polishing a glass. All but a few of the passengers had gone ashore.

“Raining stair rods,” Sean said. “Would you people like a drink, perhaps, to put some joy into your life?”

“And alcohol to soothe the system,” Hank said. “Why not.”

After the Pacific crossing, they were regulars here and had no need to specify their drinks. Sean poured a large measure of tax-free Gordon’s gin into a glass, lemon and no ice, with Schweppes tonic on top of that, then put it down in front of Frances at the bar. Hank watched intently, nibbling at the peanuts before him, as the barman poured a much larger measure of Bombay gin into a cocktail-pitcher, added ice and a few drops of Noilly-Pratt, then stirred and decanted it through the strainer into a chilled glass from the fridge. A bit of lemon peel, squeezed over the drink so that the drops of oil could float on the surface, then rubbed on the rim and dropped in, completed the drink.

“Good,” Hank said, sipping from it. “First of the day.”

“But far from the last, sir, far from the last.”

“Thanks a lot, Sean, I appreciate the observation.”

“Always happy to oblige, sir.”

They finished their drinks in silence, idly watching the barman first slice lemons, then prepare a large container of his own formula Bloody Mary mix. He had worked in New York for a number of years, to the pleasure of the Americans aboard who did not want warm white wine when they ordered a Martini, or beer served at blood heat. Sean reserved these pleasures for his British customers, and what you were served depended upon your accent.

“Do you know how I feel now?” Frances said, holding onto her drink with both hands and staring into the depths. “I have the horrible sensation that someone is walking on my grave.” Hank put his hand on hers and held tight. “I know that I’m sounding stupid, and I have never been much of a one for the vapors and female intuition and all that. But just now, at this very moment, I felt a wave of black depression wash over me — completely without reason.”

“Completely with reason. With those Nazis aboard and more on the way, with trouble of some kind coming up — I don’t blame you in the slightest. I blame myself for letting you come with me.”

She shook her head. “No. I would be feeling infinitely worse if I were just sitting at home and worrying myself sick about you. It’s better this way and I’m over my fit — so let’s go down to the cabin and have a matinee.”

“My, but we are being forward today. I bet you think that I’m an easy lay…. “

“I know you are.”

“You’re right. I don’t deny it.” He looked at his watch. “I have to meet Ginzberg in three hours to give him the latest tapes…. “

“That should be just about enough time for what I have in mind for you. Let’s go.”

They stood and Hank left some money on the bar; Sean waved goodbye. The nearest elevator was just beyond the adjoining lounge so they would not have to go out on deck again.

“Have you been to Ginzberg’s cabin yet?” Frances asked. Hank shook his head no.

“We meet at the same place every time — the men’s room on the boat deck. I know it sounds like every other spy movie, but it really works. No one’s ever there, I give him the tape and we leave separately. He’ll tell me if there has been anything new on the old tape, but we’ve heard about all there is by now. That should change now that we’re in Acapulco.”

Hank had his key ready and unlocked the door to their cabin as they came up to it. He pushed it open and stood aside to let Frances in first.

“Robert’s been here making the bed or something,” she said. “He’s closed the curtains and turned the lights off.”

She switched on the lights and gasped. Leandro Diaz stood up from the chair where he had been sitting.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” he said. “I am an associate of your husband.”