Mark Lee - The Canal House

Billy stepped out on deck and realized what was going to happen. “That’s enough of that,” he said.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Collins said.

“Sure it does. Now get out of my sight before I break every bone in your grubby little hands. You know how that’s done, Tig? I know how it’s done. Because I’ve done it. A couple times.”

Billy took a quick step toward them like a boxer moving across the ring and they retreated down the hatchway to their sleeping area. Billy smiled at me. “Jesus, Nicky. I can’t believe it. You were going to fight ’em.”

“What happened?” Julia asked. “What did Vanderhouten say?”

“He’s going to do it. We had to give him all the money in our pockets and now the little bastard wants Mr. Seaton’s personal check.”

Billy walked to the wheelhouse and returned with a leather checkbook. He went back into the cabin and Richard came out a minute later. “Okay. We’ve got an agreement,” Richard said. “He’ll transport everyone for twenty thousand English pounds.”

“Thank you, Richard,” Julia said. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Richard touched her arm, then turned to me. “You got film in your cameras, Nicky?”

“Sure. Everything’s working.”

Richard smiled, thinking about a seat in Parliament, maybe even a cabinet post. “Take lots of pictures when we get to Liquica. It’s going to be a dramatic day.”

CAPTAIN VANDERHOUTEN SLIPPED Richard’s check into his money belt, then came out on deck and started giving commands. The ship no longer carried much cargo; it had been unloaded during the last two days. When the engine started up, we could hear a hollow, vibrating sound. The crew cast off the lines and Vanderhouten backed the ship away from the wharf. The Seria turned in the water like a large, slow creature, then pushed its way through the waves.

I picked up the uneaten bowl of rice and brought it over to Julia. She stood near the bow, staring at the coastline. Now that the ship was moving she was calm and focused on the next part of the plan.

“You better eat something, Julia. It’ll make you feel better.”

Julia took the bowl and picked at the food with some chopsticks. “It was wonderful how you carried that little girl, Nicky. Every time I looked around, I saw the people on the truck and that child in your arms.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“When we return to Europe, you and Daniel are going to be my special projects. First, I’m going to teach Daniel how to sing. He loves music, but he’s a terrible singer.”

“We’ll take group lessons. Start a chorus.”

“I’ve planned something different for you. I’m going to fix you up with a girlfriend.”

“Stick with Daniel’s singing,” I said. “That’s a realistic goal.”

“We can put your photo up in the London underground. Wanted: a suitable partner for an American photographer who’s brave, loyal, and kind.”

“What about plump and stubborn, yet sexy?”

“You can write your own ad, Nicky. I’ll get all the letters and pick out the most promising.”

A thumping sound came from inside the ship. It wasn’t particularly loud, more like a hand slapping the base of an overturned washtub. The hatch cover was pushed away and four crew members scrambled out, followed by a plume of black smoke. The Seria shuddered and stopped moving. Captain Vanderhouten burst out of the wheelhouse and began screaming at the Indonesians.

“No power!” he told us. “The engine just stopped!”

Billy climbed down the ladder into the hold, then came up a few minutes later holding on to Pak. The first mate’s skin and clothes were black with smoke. He lay on the desk, gasping for air. Billy coughed and spat onto the deck. “Something’s on fire,” he said. “It’s down in the engine room.”

Captain Vanderhouten kept shouting orders. Two crew members started a portable water pump and dropped its intake hose into the ocean. The pump coughed and sputtered like a sick lawn mower. Salt water leaked from the brass couplings. The crew caught the water in buckets and poured it down the hold. Gradually, the smoke subsided and we climbed down to the engine room. Everything was hot and covered with soot. Black marks appeared on our hands and clothing.

Pak stood close to the engine and examined the destruction. It looked like he was trying to communicate with some deeper essence of the machinery. He shook his head and spoke to the captain.

“Pak thinks the fuel line burst,” Vanderhouten said. We were pushing the engine when we left the harbor.”

“Can you fix it?” I asked.

“It’s going to be difficult. We don’t have any parts.”

“We need to get back to Dili right away,” Julia said. “We’ll have to talk to General Bates.”

“My shareholders are going to be very angry,” Vanderhouten said. “Who’s going to pay for this damage?”

Billy reached out and grabbed the captain’s throat with one hand. Vanderhouten tried to pull himself away, but Billy tightened his grip. Terrified, the captain stopped struggling. His face turned pink and spit drooled from his mouth.

“Listen up,” Billy said. “I could snap your neck right now and no one would give a damn. We’ll talk about money later, but right now we want off this bloody ship.”

The crew found the rubber raft, but its outboard motor wouldn’t start and Pak had to put in a new spark plug. Now it was almost twelve noon. As each minute passed, we moved closer to sunset and Cristiano’s ultimatum. Richard switched on his sat phone and called his contacts at the United Nations. Although General Bates didn’t control the fleet in Dili Harbor, neither the Australians nor the British would allow their ships to be moved without a formal request from Interfet. Richard continued using the phone while we rode the raft back to the harbor. “Bates will see us,” he told Julia. “Just let me do the negotiation.”

We landed on the beach and ran up the waterfront boulevard to the Turismo Hotel. Interfet headquarters was being moved to the airport, but General Bates still had an office there. Julia wanted to go upstairs immediately, but the Australian soldiers held us in the lobby. Young men in camouflage uniforms walked around carrying manila folders and I heard a short-wave radio playing the kind of bouncy pop music you’d hear in an exercise class. Bottles of water were stacked against the wall and the sergeant standing behind the hotel desk told us, “It’s free, mate. Take as much as you want.” I had a fantasy of water bottles and cans of diet cola and all the other products of the industrial world being tossed out of airplanes flying over East Timor. There were no parachutes in my fantasy. Nothing to slow the fall. And television sets and personal computers and lounge chairs and enormous bales of snack crackers were tumbling through the air and exploding on the ground.

Major Holden came downstairs and guided us to the general’s new office on the first floor. A portable electric generator was chugging away down in the courtyard to power the general’s air conditioner. We walked into a pocket of cool, dry air and found Bates sitting at his desk with a stack of Australian newspapers.

“We need a transport ship,” Julia said, then started to explain what had happened.

“Why don’t you sit down, Dr. Cadell.”

“We need—”

“I’m quite aware of the situation.” General Bates looked annoyed. “My office has already contacted naval command and requested that the cruiser Botany Bay be sent down the coast to Liquica.”

I took Julia’s hand and got her to sit down on a bench facing the general. “When will the ship leave the harbor?” I asked.