Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

He put the dexadrine tablet into his mouth and washed it down with a large gulp of whisky and soda. This should do the trick. He would just rest for a bit while it took effect….

Rivelles woke with a start, shaking his head. Like a simple fool he had fallen asleep. He blinked at his watch. Just ten minutes. But ten minutes wasted. The QE2 would be docking in a matter of hours, so he did not have the ten minutes to waste. With a groan he hauled himself to his feet and went and dug the classified section of the phone book out of the stand by the bed. Then ran his finger through the listing of photographers. They were all either British or Dutch names and that was no good. They were sure to know more than he did about the local situation and might be suspicious of his cover story. Yes, here was a possibility. Nino Rossino. He marked a line under the number and went to the phone.

Nino was a freelance photographer, yes, and sure, he did newspaper work. No problem — except not today. A portrait assignment, impossible to break the appointment. The appointment was broken when a cash payment of two hundred rands was offered in advance against fee. Yes, he could be at the Cunard office within the hour. A pleasure.

Cunard was even easier to convince than the photographer had been. Someone in Leandro Diaz’s organization had discovered that Newsweek magazine was doing an in-depth report on cruise liners, with a good-sized section on Cunard. Rivelles had very good reason to feel that his authentic-looking Newsweek press card and documentation were all forged. The Cape Town Cunard executive did not think so, however, which was all that counted. Yes, happy to oblige, no trouble getting aboard, yes, the well-known popular novelist Sheila Conrad was on board the QE2 and would undoubtedly love to grant him an interview. Passes would be instantly supplied for him and his photographer and would he be able to have drinks afterward with the Captain? It was all very straightforward. Rivelles, once again Hunt-Palmer, shook hands for a second time and allowed himself to be shown out of the office. A swarthy man, hung with camera bags, was waiting in the reception room, moodily nibbling on the remains of a well-chewed fingernail.

“Mr. Rossino?”

The photographer jumped to his feet, wiping his fingers against his pants-leg before he extended his hand to Rivelles.

“Nino, if you don’t mind. You’re Hunt-Palmer then, Newsweek. My pleasure. I’ve never worked with your people before, going to be great, take some great shots.”

“You’re not Italian then? This is for you.” He passed over the envelope with the two hundred rands. Nino took a quick glimpse inside then jammed it into his pocket.

“Italian-American. I guess you can tell. I’ve got plenty of experience in the States, count on that. But, well, more opportunity over here, you might say.”

Rivelles was listening more to the tone of the man’s voice than his words and he jumped to a sudden conclusion. Maybe it was a wrong one — but he lost nothing by trying.

“Ever do any divorce work, Nino? Or work with investigation agencies?”

Nino’s eyes slitted and his voice changed. Cold, suspicious.

“I done a lot of work, here and there. Why do you want to know?”

Jumped-to conclusion confirmed, Rivelles thought to himself. Little Nino had been around. He lowered his own voice almost to a whisper when he spoke.

“Well, you might say I have interests other than Newsweek. A matter of litigation, some photographs of people who might not want to have their photographs taken. Well-paid, of course.”

As he spoke, the suspicion faded from Nino’s face and was slowly replaced with a broad smile.

“Hunt-Palmer,” he said, patting his camera case, “You may not realize it yet but you have come to the right man. I was the best, the absolute best in the city.

Too good. A couple of pix got into the wrong hands and now I’m sort of sitting it out in the boonies until things cool down. What’s the deal?”

“We’ll talk about it in the cab, if you don’t mind. The ship will be docking soon and I want us aboard before the passengers.”

Nino was a find. Rivelles had a cover story planned, which he quickly abandoned. Nino did not want to know any of the details. He just wanted to know what or who he had to shoot, he would do the job and earn his fee.

“I gotta look at the setup first,” he said. “I’m not saying that your idea is a bad one, but it looks too obvious just standing around clicking off shots. We need a good cover. The thing is to appear to be doing one thing while all of the time you’re doing something else. Who is this broad you gotta talk to? Is she on the boat now?”

“Sheila Conrad? Yes, she boarded at Southampton. But I don’t really have to talk to her at all.”

“But I want you to, Mr. Hunt-Palmer…. “

“John.”

“Right, John. Let me look at the lay of the land first and then we figure out what to do. It’s gonna be a piece of cake! And a helluva lot better than doing all the fucking dago weddings!”

As the cab pulled into the street beside the dock, Rivelles had a shock that jarred his system to life faster than the dexadrine had done.

The QE2 was already tied up at the pier.

Had all of the time and effort been wasted? He was shamed; how could he face the Paraguayan resistance people after this? He stumbled from the cab and after a half-look at the meter pushed banknotes into the driver’s hand. Then walked, fast, towards the entrance.

There was a crowd here and above their heads he could see that the covered gangways were in position.

“Sorry, sir. Passengers only here. Do you have a ticket?”

The guard at the entrance blocked Rivelles’s way with firm insistence.

“Press,” he said, fumbling for his papers. “Have they started to board yet?”

“Not to worry, sir. Health and Customs officers just gone aboard. It will be a while yet before they let anyone else through. Right this way, sir, if you will go through that door. Is this gentleman with you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In you go then.”

They joined the small group of press and officials in the VIP suite and were offered coffee while they waited. Rivelles would have preferred something a good deal stronger, but he took the coffee and sipped at it. They did not have long to wait. Within a few minutes one of the ship’s officers appeared and led the way aboard.

Despite what Rivelles had said in the Cunard office he had never been aboard the QE2 before. He was a man in a hurry and could not bear to travel by trains, much less ships. The airplane, for him, was the only means of conveyance that was at all civilized. He had been convinced, by a woman, of course, to take a cruise. Just once. The daily boredom, despite the heavenly passion of the evenings, had been excruciating. He had abandoned both liner and girl at their first port of call and had flown home at a pleasurable six hundred miles an hour. Therefore the QE2 came as more than a little surprise to him.

Firstly, he had no feeling at all of being aboard a ship. This was more like a first-class hotel; the sort that he always enjoyed. But this was no hotel, he realized, when he came out on deck. He could see that it was a ship with rails, lifeboats, portholes — but it did not have the feel of a ship. It was too big. The deck stretched away from him like a city street. The scale was something that was hard to accept. Intellectually he knew that this was the largest liner in the world. The reality was something else altogether. Rivelles, a man who was very hard to impress, was very impressed indeed. He shook his head. Back to work; that’s what he was here for. He pushed through the nearest door and back into a world of soft carpeting, unobtrusive lighting and seductive panelling. When he explained his needs to the Bureau, they were catered to at once. A quick phone call determined that Ms. Sheila Conrad was in her cabin and was indeed expecting him. An attendant appeared to lead the way.