Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Betrayal

“Umm, what happened to poor Herr Crane and his strange sexual habits?” Najla said, glancing at the window as a village train station flashed by in a second.

“Don’t know. Seems you ran away before we could find out. Speaking of which, where did you go after I left you?”

“Back to Germany.”

“No, you didn’t. And you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Lying when you don’t have to. Not that I hold it against you, but it slows things down,” he said.

“What makes you so sure? I could’ve gone back.”

“You weren’t on N-TV. If you were back, they would’ve said something.”

She shrugged. “I’m not that important.”

“Now I know you’re lying. You are many things, but modest isn’t one of them.”

“You say I lie, but you don’t care. Why?” Najla asked, brushing away a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. She had taken off her Burberry and wore a simple white blouse and gray slacks. On anyone else it would have looked like a day at the office, but on her it was Fashion Week in Paris, and there wasn’t anyone in the carriage, male or female, who didn’t steal a glance at her.

“Professional courtesy. We’re both in the lying business.” He grinned. “So where did you go?”

“I talked to women in the Amsterdam sex trade to look for leads.”

“Is that part of your TV reporter training?”

“You’d be surprised what a girl has to do to get on these days. So, does Herr McDonald share Herr Crane’s dirty little urges to tie women up, have sex, and then leave them?”

“Which bothers you more? That I tied you up or that I let you go?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, liebling. You’re attractive, but not that attractive.”

“I went back, you know. To the hotel, but you were gone.”

“If I had known, I might have waited.”

“Why? Do you like men who abduct you and tie you up so much?”

“Let’s just say you did it with a certain charm.” She smiled enigmatically. “So why are you going to Marseilles?”

“For the same reason you are-and please,” he said, holding up his hand, “spare me the one about how you’re being on this train is a coincidence. And don’t waste my time with the latest installment of Intrepid Najla, Girl Reporter on a Mission.”

“Why bother? You wouldn’t believe me,” she said, glancing again at the landscape whizzing by. Another TGV flashed by their train in the opposite direction with a roar and was gone in seconds.

“Why should I? The only true thing you ever told me was your name, and I already knew that.”

“More than I know about you,” she said, looking into his eyes.

“Touche. Being in France is improving your dialogue,” he said, and grinned. “What led you to Marseilles?”

“A source.”

“A male source?”

“Now you sound jealous, liebling,” she said, dipping her little finger into the wine and licking the wine from her finger with her lips. “What difference does it make?”

“Actually, none at all.”

“Did I tempt you with what I did just now?” she asked.

“Yes, you did, you little sexpot! But it doesn’t matter because I know you’re lying.”

“How do you know?”

“You opened your mouth.”

At that, she laughed loud enough to make everyone near them look at her.

“Shh!” he said, grinning as he held his finger to his lips. “We have to stop. Even if it is fun.”

“You are a rare one, Herr McDonald. Prost.” She raised her glass and took a sip.

“Zum wohl. What happened to your job on television?”

“I am auf anweisung… how do you say, on assignment. I told them I will be returning soon.” She sipped her wine. “So, are you going to tie me up again?”

“Not so long as you stay right next to me. It’s no longer a question of whether you’re an agent. The only question is for whom.”

“So we’re partners?”

“Or enemies.”

“How will we know which?”

“We won’t. Not till the chips are down.”

“Like most relationships between men and women,” she said. “So what are we doing in Marseilles?”

“What did your ‘mysterious’ source tell you?” he asked, signaling the attendant with the snack cart for more wine and a couple of croissants.

“Only that the Islamisch network in Nederland was going to send someone to Marseilles. Truly, why are you going to Marseilles?”

“I’m looking for a ship.”

“Good. You know more than I.”

“If I do-and you’re actually telling the truth-it’s the first time, on both accounts,” he said, reaching for money to pay the cart attendant.

Marseilles, France

The sun was shining as the TGV glided into the train station in Marseilles. They took a taxi to the port. Not the old Vieux Port, with its fish market and pizza vans and tourists gazing out at the bay and the islands, including the notorious Chateau d’If of Count of Monte Cristo fame, but the Nouveau Port, the enormous modern harbor complex, one of the largest in Europe, north of the Vieux Port. While on the TGV, Scorpion had spent a half hour on his cell phone to work his way from department to department to set up an appointment with the director for Black Sea shipping

operations at the port. The guard at the entrance to the port directed the taxi to a large concrete office building a block from the quai. A sign on the building read: PORT DE MARSEILLE FOS-DIRECTION DES OPERATIONS ET TERMINAUX.

As they walked inside, Najla asked: “Who am I supposed to be on this expedition? Your assistant?”

“My mistress,” Scorpion said, pushing the door open.

“You know, I’m not sure I like you,” she said as he gave his name to the security guard at the desk.

“It’s not a job requirement, not even for mistresses,” he replied, picking up a Paris Match to read while they waited in the small lobby. After a few minutes a young man came and guided them to a second floor office. A dark-haired Frenchman in shirtsleeves and tie behind the desk gestured for them to sit.

“Je suis Fabien Bartini, le directeur de la mer noire et oriental — expedition europeenne. Et vous etes le mandataire pour la compagnie de FIMAX, n’est ce-pas, monsieur?” he said.

“I’m an attorney representing their interests,” Scorpion said in English, handing Bartini a business card. “I’m trying to locate the MV Zaina.”

“And this beautiful mademoiselle is…?” Bartini said.

“Ma amie, my girlfriend,” Scorpion translated for Najla’s benefit.

“He wishes,” Najla said.

“ Alors…” the Frenchman said, looking at Najla.

“About the Zaina, Monsieur le Directeur? I understood she was due to be in Marseilles yesterday but never arrived. Where is she?” Scorpion asked.

Bartini checked his computer for a moment. “She’s on her way. She made an unscheduled stop in Genoa. She’s due to berth at 2245 hours tonight. If you wish, I can arrange a pass.”

“Why did the ship go to Genoa?”

“There was a death on the Zaina,” he said, looking at the computer screen. “The capitaine.”

“The captain. Isn’t that unusual?”

“Yes, but people die at sea. It happens.” Bartini shrugged.

“Is there any evidence of foul play?”

“I have no idea. One can contact the Italian authorities.”

“Why couldn’t they unload the body in Marseilles?”

“I do not know, monsieur. Hmm, c’est interessant,” he said, peering at the screen.

“What is?”

“One sees that they unloaded three TEU containers from the ship in Genoa.”

“Unusual because the stop was unscheduled?”

“To unload such a small number of containers is unusual,” Bartini said.