Stephen Coonts - Combat

“I thought you wanted me with you.”

“I did. Then I saw how you’re dressed.”

“I’m a tourist!”

“You’re a joke with pale shins. I can’t do a serious interview with a foreign national if you’re visible; how can I have his full attention when he’s wondering whether Bluto is going to start juggling plates behind me?”

I saw his point and promised to bring a change of clothes next time. Quent found the place, in a row of transient quarters an Oakland beat cop would call flophouses. Without a place to park, he turned the Volvo over to me. “I’ll call when I’m done,” he said, and disappeared into the three-story stucco place.

I did find a parking spot eventually. My printer was at home, but I stored my morning’s case report on StudyBint. Quent called not long afterward and, because he wore a frown only when puzzling things out, I hardly gave him time to take the wheel. “Something already?”

He thought about it a moment before replying. “Not on Park. Not directly, at any rate. But I’m starting to understand why our missing engineer was uneasy.” When giving Park’s name he had mentioned the ship to the rooming-house proprietor, who said she hadn’t heard of Park but named the two crew members who were there. The Korean, Hong Chee, she described as taller than average, late thirties. The second man, one Ali Ghaffar, was older; perhaps Indian. Pretending surprise at this lucky accident, Quent asked to speak with them.

Hong Chee was out, but Quent found his roommate Ghaffar in the room, preternaturally quiet and alert. Ghaffar, a middle-aged Paki, was a studious-looking sort wearing one of those white cloth doodads wound around his head, who had evidently been reading one of two well-thumbed leather-bound books. Quent couldn’t read even the titles though he got the impression they might be religious tomes.

Ghaffar spoke fair English. He showed some interest in the fact that an Asian speaking perfect American English was hoping to trace the movements of an engineer off the Ras Ormara. Quent explained that Park’s family was concerned enough to hire private investigators, blah-blah, merely wanted assurance that Park hadn’t met with foul play, et cetera.

Ghaffar said he had only a nodding acquaintance with Park. He couldn’t, or more likely wouldn’t, say whether Park had made any friends aboard ship, and had no idea whether Park had friends in the Bay Area. Ghaffar and Hong Chee had seen the engineer, he thought, the day before in some Richmond bar, and Park was looking fit, but they hadn’t talked. That’s when Quent noticed the wastebasket’s contents. He began pacing around, stroking his chin, trying to scan everything in the room without being obvious while doing it.

Personal articles were aligned on lamp tables as if neatness counted, beds made, nothing out of place. Quent took his nail clippers out and began idly tossing them in one hand as he dreamed up more questions, and he just happened to drop his clippers into the wastebasket, apologizing as he fished them out with slow gropes of bogus clumsiness.

Quent realized that Ghaffar was waiting with endless calm for this ten-thumbed gumshoe to go away, volunteering little, responding carefully. Quent said he’d like to talk with Hong Chee sometime if possible and passed his cell-phone card to Ghaffar, who accepted it solemnly, and then Quent left and called me to be picked up.

“So I ask you,” Quent said rhetorically: “What would a devout Moslem, who adheres to correct practices alone in his room, have been doing in a gin mill, with or without his buddy? Not likely. I don’t think he saw Park, I think he wanted me to think Park was healthy. And you haven’t asked me about the trash basket.”

“Didn’t want to interrupt. What’d you see?”

“Candy wrappers and an empty plastic pop bottle. Oh, yes,” he added with studied neglect, “and an airline ticket. I didn’t have time to read it closely, but I caught an Asian name — not Hong Chee’s — Oakland International, and a departure date.” He paused before he specified it.

“Christ, that’s tomorrow,” I said.

“I’m not through. Ghaffar is on the crew list as the ship’s machinist. You ever see a machinist’s hands?”

“Sure, like a blacksmith’s. Like he force-feeds cactus to Rottweilers for kicks.”

“Well, at the least they’re callused and scarred. Not Ali Ghaffar. He may know how to use a lathe, but I’d bet against it.”

“Then who’s the real machinist? Ships have to have one.”

“Do they? From what Medler and you tell me, and from what I saw on your video, the Ras Ormara might go a year without needing that kind of attention.”

He checked some notes and drove silently across town like he knew where he was going. Presently he said, as if to himself: “So Hong Chee has dumped what looks like a perfectly good airline ticket for somebody out of Oakland. Wish I’d seen where to. More particularly, I wish I knew how he could afford to junk it. And why he knows to junk it the day before the flight.”

“Me, teacher,” I said, putting up a hand and waving it. “Call on me.”

“Tell the class, Master Rackham,” he said, going along with it.

“Somebody else is funding him better than most, and he’s changed his departure plans because La Martin and company have put the brakes on whatever he had in mind.”

“Take your seat, you’ve left the heart of my question untouched. Is he worried for the same reasons as Park?”

“Suppose we give him a chance to tell us,” I said.

“Maybe we’ll do that. But I’m not sure he’s making plans for his own departure. Another Asian?”

“At a guess, I’d say the name is unimportant. How many sets of I.D. might he have, Quent?”

After a long pause, he exhaled for what seemed like forever. “Harve, you are definitely paranoid — I’m happy to say. Now you’ve torn the lid off this little box with a missing engineer in it, and I find a much bigger box inside, so to speak. And there wasn’t a second ticket there — so Ghaffar may still intend to go back aboard. Or not. But I’ll tell you this: Our machinist is no machinist, and he certainly isn’t spending his time ashore as if he had the usual things in mind.”

I couldn’t fault his reasoning. “So where are we headed?”

“Korean social club. Maybe we’ll find Hong Chee there.”

“And not Park Soon?” All I got was a shrug and a glance, and I didn’t like the glance. Quent found a slot for the Volvo in a neighborhood of shops with signs in English and the odd squiggles that weren’t quite Chinese characters; Hangul has a script all its own. “You might try calling Dana while I’m inside,” Quent said. “Let her know we’ve got a gooey Kleenex for her.”

So I did, and was told she was in the field, and I tried her cell phone. She sounded like she was in a salt mine and none too pleased about it. She perked up slightly at my offer of the evidence. “I’ll pick it up when we’re through here,” she said, and sneezed. “I thought the incoming cargo might be dirty, but the spectral analyzer says no. A few pallets are too heavy, though. My God, but wood dust is pervasive!”

“You’re in a warehouse,” I said, glad that she couldn’t see me grinning. Climbing around on pallets of logs probably hadn’t been high on her list of adventures when she joined up. “I haven’t seen the stuff, but if it’s that dusty maybe it’s not plain logs. Probably rough-sawn, right?”

She said it was. “What would you know about it?”

“I’ve seen how balsa is used in high-tech panels. The stuff is graded by weight per cubic meter and it varies from featherweight, which is highly prized, to the density of pine. In other words, pallets could vary by a factor of three or so.”