Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Betrayal

He went to the lifeboat where he had stored a backpack with things he didn’t want found. There was a complication. It was important that the captain’s death not be thought of as suspicious. Otherwise they might hold the ship and the crew while they investigated, which in Italy could take Allah knew how long. He poked around in the backpack in the darkness, not wanting to show any kind of light, until he felt the pouch with the disposable latex gloves, hypodermic, and pills. He slipped the pouch into his jacket pocket and made his way aft, back to the captain’s quarters. He listened at the hatch and could hear Chernovetsky snoring even through the metal door. He looked around the passageway for a final check. The only sound was the throbbing of the engine. He checked his watch; it was nearing eight bells, and realized he’d have to move quickly.

He opened the hatch as quietly as he could, closed it behind him, and turned on his key-chain pocket light. The captain was sprawled on his bunk, his snores rattling noisily at the back of his throat. He was still in his pants and undershirt, one bare foot half hanging off the bunk. The bottle of Tavia brandy on the table was nearly empty, the glass on its side, vibrating with the ship’s movement. Assuming he was out cold enough not to feel the injection, he took the latex gloves and Demerol pills out of the pouch and placed them on the ledge next to the bunk. He removed the tip from the syringe, filled it with the entire ampule of liquid Demerol, and put the tip and the empty ampule back into the pouch. This was the critical moment, he thought, positioning himself so he could do the guillotine choke hold if Chernovetsky woke up.

He felt between the captain’s toes for the dorsal digital vein. Chernovetsky snorted in his sleep but didn’t stir. As soon as he thought he felt the vein, he jabbed the needle into the space next to the big toe and pushed the top, emptying the syringe. Chernovetsky’s snore stopped in mid-snore and he started to move. The Palestinian glanced at his face. The captain’s eyes were open but with consciousness just returning. Chernovetsky was about to breathe in to shout when the Palestinian grabbed the pillow and shoved it over his face, holding it down with all his strength as the captain thrashed feebly against the pressure. Half unconscious, with a rapid intravenous injection of Demerol that could cause cardiac arrest multiplied by the effects of the alcohol, the captain would be dead shortly either way.

After a minute that seemed almost endless, his arms pressing the pillow down with his weight, all movement stopped. He held the pillow over Chernovetsky’s face another thirty seconds, then lifted it off and felt for the pulse in the neck. Chernovetsky was dead.

He put the syringe back into the pouch, opened the Demerol pill container, and just to be sure, wiped the container and cap clean of fingerprints with a corner of the sheet from the bunk, then pressed the captain’s fingers on the container and cap. He placed the pillow under Chernovetsky’s head and closed the open staring eyes, shoving two of the pills deep into Chernovetsky’s mouth. Chernovetsky was still alive for about half a minute after the injection, so anything other than an exhaustive autopsy would likely conclude that he had died from a heart attack caused by the combination of Demerol and alcohol, he thought, as he put the pouch back into his pocket and quietly exited the cabin.

Back on deck, he dropped the gloves, syringe, tip, ampule, and the empty pouch one at a time over the rail into the sea. He went forward to finish his watch. The night was still dark, except for the stars and the lights of the container ship he had seen earlier, now well astern. He scanned ahead, the constellation Leo midway to zenith over the bow. He lit a cigarette and for the first time in a long time allowed himself to think about her and wonder where she was.

The steward’s assistant, a Filipino everyone called Manolo, found the captain at 0830 hours when he brought him his usual breakfast of buckwheat pancakes and tea. Later that morning First Officer Edis Ademovic sent for Seaman Lababi to meet him in the officers’ mess. They were alone, but Ademovic put a finger to his lips, opened the hatch and looked around the passageway to make sure no one was listening.

“Did you do this?” Ademovic said.

“I was on watch,” the Palestinian said.

“So you had nothing to do with it?”

“The captain was an ivrogne. ” A drunk. “Everyone knows it. Who knows what else he took?”

“So you know there were drugs?”

“How would I know? I’m just a seaman.”

“So you say.”

“Are we going to Genoa?”

“You have the papers?”

“Here,” the Palestinian said, handing him the bill of lading papers and authorizations. “You just have to initial at the bottom.”

“I’m captain now,” the Bosnian said.

“So?”

“I should get ten thousand,” Ademovic said, moistening his lips with his tongue.

The Palestinian looked at him coldly. Abruptly, he smiled; a smile that had nothing to do with his eyes. “I don’t have it.”

Ademovic leaned close. “What can you give?”

“Seven, no more. But I’ll put in a good word for you with the owners.”

“Seven,” Ademovic said, taking the papers and initialing them. “You leave the ship at Genoa?”

“Once the containers are off, you can find my replacement in Genoa or sail one AB short.”

“Bring the money before officers’ mess tonight. I have to go to the bridge,” Ademovic said, getting up.

“So the capitaine was taking drugs?” the Palestinian asked.

“Painkillers.”

“Painkillers and booze. A bad combination.”

“So are you. Bring the money. After, when we get to Genoa, get off my ship,” Ademovic said.

“Why are you talking this way? I had nothing to do with the capitaine,” the Palestinian said.

“Maybe. But I am not a drunk. Not so easy to kill.”

The Palestinian came close to Ademovic, forcing him to back up.

“We’re on the same side, First Officer. We’re just doing what the owners want us to do so they give a bonus. I did nothing, but if I were to be involved,” the Palestinian whispered intently, “you would be too. You were paid. We’re in this together. All we have to do is berth in Genoa. So long as we do that, I am the best friend you’ll ever have in this world-or the next.”

“Just remember who gives the orders.”

“You are the capitaine, Ilhamdulilah, thanks be to God,” the Palestinian said as he left the officers’ mess.

“Why did the first officer want to see you?” Gabir, a Tunisian seaman, whispered to him in Arabic that afternoon. They were working aft on the rust scraping and painting detail. The Palestinian wiped the sweat from his forehead and squinted in the sun as he glanced at the horizon. The ship was running northwesterly and had begun a slight roll as they headed into the tricky currents of the Straits of Messina, Mount Etna a distant smudge off the port stern.

“I was on watch when the captain died. The first officer wanted to know if I heard or saw something,” the Palestinian said.

“The captain was sakran,” meaning a drunk. “Something was bound to happen,” Gabir said.

“Better he die than something happen to the ship.”

Gabir looked at him. “Truly. But it is not good for a captain to die.”

No, it wasn’t, the Palestinian thought. He hadn’t wanted to do it. That yebnen kelp son of a dog Ukrainian was just so stubborn. Still, Ademovic and the second officer, the Turk, Duyal Ghanem, had both been paid off. It was in Ademovic’s interest to go to Genoa, especially with a dead captain, although the Palestinian knew he wouldn’t be able to stop worrying until the ship passed Cap Corse at the northern tip of Corsica and he saw its heading bound for Genoa and not Marseilles.