Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

He paused, letting the moment build.

“Whether or not there was a sexual liaison is irrelevant. We all know the rules regarding fraternization with passengers.”

With his hands behind his back, he made a slow turn, looking into each officer’s face in turn, before ending with Mason.

“May I remind you that this is not the Love Boat. This kind of behavior will not be tolerated. Let the passengers be responsible for their own indiscretions; my crew must not indulge themselves in this way.”

LeSeur was startled to see that the flush on Mason’s face had deepened considerably.

Couldn’t be her,

he thought.

She’s the last one who would break the rules.

The door to the bridge opened and Patrick Kemper, the chief security officer, stepped in. Seeing Cutter, he moved toward him. “Sir, I—”

“Not now,” Cutter said. Kemper stopped, fell silent.

On every large cruise ship LeSeur had served on, the captain’s prime responsibilities were to schmooze with the passengers, preside over long, jolly dinners at the captain’s table, and be the public face of the ship. The staff captain, while nominally second in command, was the chief operating officer. But Cutter had a reputation for disdaining the glad-handing duties, and it appeared he was going to carry this habit into his first captaincy. He was an officer of the old school, a former commodore in the Royal Navy from a titled family, who LeSeur suspected had been advanced somewhat beyond his competencies. A few years before, the captaincy of the Olympia had gone to Cutter’s most bitter rival, and it had stuck in his craw ever since. He’d pulled strings in high places to get command of the Britannia —which should by rights have gone to Mason—and now his intentions were obvious. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure this maiden voyage was the crossing of his career—including breaking the Olympia ’s own fastest crossing, set just the year before. Rough weather would have no effect on him, LeSeur thought grimly, other than to steel his resolve. Cruise ships fled weather; but an ocean liner, a real ocean liner, toughed it out.

LeSeur glanced at Mason. She was looking ahead through the forward windows, calm and poised; the only hint of something amiss was the rapidly disappearing flush. So far, through the shakedown cruise and today’s departure, she’d taken the commodore’s heavy- handedness and second-guessing with equanimity and grace. Even being passed over as master of the Britannia seemed not to have ruffled her feathers. Perhaps she’d gotten used to the high-seas chauvinism and developed a thick skin. The captaincies of the great ships seemed to be one of the last male bastions in the civilized world. She was no doubt aware of the unspoken rule: in the passenger ship business, the so-called teak ceiling remained: no matter how competent, a woman would never make master of one of the great liners.

“Speed under the hull thirty knots, sir,” the helmsman said.

Cutter nodded and turned to the chief security officer. “All right, Mr. Kemper, what is it?”

The small, bulletlike man spoke. Despite his heavy Boston accent and inescapable American-ness, LeSeur thought of Kemper as a kindred soul. Maybe it was because they both came from working-class neighborhoods in port cities on the Atlantic. Kemper had once been a cop, shot a drug dealer who was about to pull the hammer on his partner, become a hero—but left the force anyway. Couldn’t deal with it, apparently. Still, he was a bloody good security officer, even if he did lack self-confidence. LeSeur guessed that lack was one of the by- products of killing a man.

“Captain, we’ve got an issue in casino operations.”

Cutter turned away from Kemper and spoke to the man as if he weren’t there. “Mr. Kemper, the casinos are incidental to the operation of ship. The first officer will handle it.” Without even glancing at LeSeur, he turned to the officer of the watch. “Call me if you need me, Mr. Vigo.” He strode crisply across the bridge and disappeared through the door.

“ ‘This is not the Love Boat,’ ” LeSeur muttered. “What a prig.”

Mason said crisply, but not unkindly, “Commodore Cutter was correct to say what he did.”

“Yes, sir.” LeSeur turned to Kemper with a friendly smile. “All right, Mr. Kemper, let’s hear about the problem in the casino.”

“It seems we got a bunch of card counters working the blackjack tables.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“First Mayfair was down two hundred thousand pounds, and then Covent Garden dropped by a hundred thousand.”

LeSeur felt a slight twinge: this was just the kind of thing that would really steam Corporate. “Did you identify them?”

“Obviously, we know who the winners are, but we don’t know who’s just lucky and who’s counting. They work as a team: players and counters. The counters don’t play—they watch and signal their players. As you know, they’re the brains.”

“I don’t know, actually. Not a coincidence?”

“Not likely. Hentoff’s worried they might be like that team of MIT students a few years back who took Vegas for three million.”

The sick feeling in the pit of LeSeur’s stomach deepened. The Britannia, he knew, wasn’t Las Vegas, where you could give a chap the bum’s rush if you caught him counting cards. These were paying passengers. And passenger ship companies relied heavily on gambling profits: a row in the casino might discourage other passengers from gambling. But something had to be done. A successful maiden voyage into New York with a fanfare of adoring publicity wouldn’t matter a damn to Corporate if there were huge losses in the casino. It was about money—first, last, and always.

“What do you propose we do about it?” he asked.

“Well, sir. There was this . . .” Kemper hesitated. “Thisunusual passenger. A rich guy who styles himself a private investigator. He’s the one first spotted the card-counting operation. He’s offered to help identify the individuals involved.”

“In return for what?”

“Well, you see . . .” Kemper stammered a moment. “It appears he’s on board to track down an artifact he claims was stolen from a client of his. If we give him some information on his suspects, he’ll help us with the card counters . . .” His voice trailed off.

“For all we know,” said LeSeur briskly, “this might be a coincidence and we’ll be up a hundred thousand pounds in Mayfair by the end of the night. Let’s wait a few more hours, see if the losses continue. Whatever you do, please deal with it quietly . No melodrama.”

“Right, sir.”

LeSeur watched Kemper go. He felt sorry for the guy—and sorry for himself. Good Christ, if only he were back in the Royal Navy, where they didn’t have casinos, card counters, and neurotic passengers.

16

YOU MADE THE BATHWATER TOO HOT AGAIN,” THE ELDERLY WOMAN said, her shrill voice far too loud for the cabin. “And you put in too little bath oil.”

Inge Larssen struggled to help the old woman—who weighed twice what she did—into her nightwear. “Sorry, mum,” she murmured.

“And how many times do I have to tell you?” The hectoring voice went on as the ancient skin, wrinkled and flaccid as a rooster’s wattle, mercifully disappeared beneath layers of silk and cotton. “Leaving dinner tonight, you put my handbag on the right side of my wheelchair. It goes on the left! The

left

!”

“Very well, mum.” Wincing at the tight grip the ancient claw had on her shoulder, Inge handed the old woman her cane. Immediately, she received a painful rap on the knuckles with it. “Stand up straight, girl. Do you want me to take a tumble?”