Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

“I'm very unhappy to say this, Mister…?”

“Hunt-Palmer.”

“I’m most sorry to report, Mr. Hunt-Palmer, that those suites have both been booked, by the same party it seems.”

“Both of them! Anyone I know?”

“Can’t say, Mr. Hunt-Palmer. Party by the name of Van der Leiden. But out of Capetown only. The whole cruise has been paid for but there is a note saying that the Southampton to Capetown leg is available if you are interested…. “

“Certainly not. Are there other suites?”

“Not suites, sir. But excellent deluxe accommodation, connecting doors….”

“Thank you for your time. Good day.”

Hunt-Palmer nodded politely and turned and was gone before Willy could think of anything more to say.

“Not interested?” Heather asked, ever so sweetly.

“Damn well interested — and sold too! Except someone already flogged the suites to some sodding Afrikaaner. There should be a rule about where they sell the tickets first.”

Willy slammed his fist down on the counter just once, then shrugged. He folded the brochures neatly and put them away. Can’t win them all. The world of shipping was forgotten for the moment and his thoughts instantly returned to his current full-time preoccupation. How to get into the knickers of sweet little Heather.

Hunt-Palmer was obviously in no hurry when he left the Cunard office. The air was crisp but the day sunny, and he whistled lightly as he walked to the corner and looked about for a taxi. A number passed, all with passengers, until one with the illuminated Taxi sign appeared. Being a gentleman, he did not indulge in any of the whistling or arm-waving so enjoyed by the tourists, but instead pointed his umbrella outward from the curb at an angle of approximately twenty-two degrees. The taxi swerved towards him and came to a stop.

“Earl’s Court tube station,” he said through the front window, then opened the rear door and climbed in.

A parked gray Cortina pulled away from the curb when they passed and swung into the traffic behind them. Possibly a coincidence. Hunt-Palmer paid it no heed. He relaxed during the cab ride, jingling the coins in his pocket.

When they reached the Earl’s Court Road he paid for the cab and entered the Underground station. He had the coins ready in his hand so he could slip them into the ticket dispensing machine as he came up to it. One ten, one five pence piece. The machine chunked and delivered a piece of yellow-sided pasteboard into his hand. He put it into the automatic turnstile which also chunked loudly, admitting him and returning the ticket at the same time. He pushed through quickly — then fell to examining the Underground route-map posted by the entrance. It was so fascinating that he stayed there looking at it for almost five minutes. It was not by chance that he also had a fine view of everyone entering the station. He abandoned his scrutiny when he heard a west-bound train rumbling towards the station, then hurried down the steps to reach it just before the doors closed.

He did not board it. Instead he waited until the disembarking passengers had all left the station. Only then did he climb back up the stairs, alone, and hand his ticket to the collector. Who raised his eyebrows slightly at the thought of a fifteen pence trip from Earl’s Court to Earl’s Court, but said nothing.

No one followed him into the street, and as far as he could tell he was alone when he crossed the square and rang the doorbell of the large block of apartments on the south side. The door buzzed and unlocked and he pushed his way in, ignoring the elevator and quickly climbing to the third floor. The door was open and he walked into the apartment and heard it close behind him.

“Were you followed here?” Leandro Diaz asked him in fast Spanish.

“No. I’m sure of that. I took precautions,” he answered in Spanish, just as fast and just as perfect.

“What happened?”

“I’ll be happy to tell you after I sit down and after you give me a glass of wine from that fine-looking bottle of Sangre de Toro I see on the table.”

There were four other men present; they all seemed to know each other as there were no introductions. One of them poured the wine and brought it to Hunt-Palmer who sipped carefully from it, then sighed.

“Were there any suspicions?” Diaz asked. “Did they take you for an Englishman?”

“How could they not, dear boy? All those terrible school dinners, all the years of freezing — as well as all my father’s money spent on Eton — all wasted if I couldn’t pass as one of the chosen. As far as Cunard knows a gentleman by the name of Hunt-Palmer…”

“Like the biscuits!” Diaz cried.

“Close, but not too close to cause suspicion. If the functionary who served me had known that my name was really Rivelles would he have been so helpful? As I said, a proper gentleman made inquiries and that is the end of it. There is no possible way they can connect the inquiries with your group. But I’ve found out about your suites. They have been booked for the entire cruise by a gentleman by the name of Van der Leiden.”

“Both suites?”

“Yes. And here is the interesting part. Although they are completely paid for — no one will be in them until the ship arrives in Capetown.”

“Capetown!” Diaz was astonished. “What in the world has South Africa to do with South America — much less Paraguay?”

“I can only guess, my friend. And my guess is that the Afrikaaners who board there might be speaking Spanish.”

Diaz nodded, frowning. “It is my guess that your guess is right. If Major de Laiglesia did buy those tickets — then this cruise of the QE2 is somehow linked with the affairs that are stirring at home.”

“Any idea yet what is happening?” Rivelles asked.

“No, nothing definite. Just that it is big. We have a good man on the inside but it is hard for him to pass on messages. We’ll find out in time, don’t worry about that. Meanwhile we must do what we can at this end, find out what we can about the mysterious passengers on this cruise. Have you ever been in South Africa, Rivelles?”

“Don’t ask me that!” He raised his free hand in a pushing-away gesture. “I am in the export-import business and I can take a few hours off, OK, but my uncle would slit my throat if I left the country…. “

“Rivelles,” Diaz said, kindly but firmly. “You will find a way. Get sick, go into a nursing home, something. But everyone in this room is well known to the thugs in the Colorados. If they spot us they will know that we are onto them. While you, you are a respectable Argentinian businessman. They can have no idea what happened to your cousin or that you approached us and offered to help. We are taking up that offer now. Besides, we are a poor organization and the air ticket to Capetown must be very expensive.”

“Leave my work, pretend I’m sick, chase murderers to South Africa — and pay for it myself!” Rivelles sighed. “You don’t ask very much do you?”

“We ask a great deal,” Diaz said in a low and intent voice.

Rivelles started to protest — then smiled instead. “ Of course you ask a lot. And of course I’ll help. It is little enough to do.”

“It is a lot and we appreciate it. Now drink your wine while Antonio calls up the travel agent and finds out about your ticket. Give him your American Express Card number like a good fellow, will you? It will make things easier.”

Rivelles felt like death. He had been in the South African Airways 747 for the best part of twenty-four hours before they had touched down in Johannesburg. The flight had left late because of a strike at Heathrow, so, of course, he had missed his connecting flight to Cape Town. Sitting in the lounge had been torture — was there an international sadist who designed the uncomfortable furniture for airports? — and the two-hour flight to Cape Town no more enjoyable. At least the Mount Nelson hotel had saved his room for him, despite the delay, and a hot bath followed by a cold shower had restored him slightly. Yes, the view of Table Mountain was just as fine as they had said it would be. Washed, shaved, dressed, he collapsed in the chair and admired the view. And still felt like death.