Philip Kerr - The Five Year Plan (1998)

'The dining room.'

'Ask a dumb question.'

They climbed a few thickly carpeted steps.

'Hey, swell kitchen,' remarked Bowen. 'Look at this.'

Kate made the wrong-answer noise again.

'It's the galley,' she said.

Bowen sighed, 'As in slaves, right? Jesus, I'm never going to remember all this shit.'

'Well it probably won't matter that much. I already thought of a way to explain your ignorance.'

'You did, huh?' Bowen contained his momentary irritation.

She went on: 'For the purposes of SYT's insurance cover, I was obliged to describe you as the boat owner and me as the captain. A lot of owners have decided to travel with their boats because of the air traffic controllers' strike. It looks as if it's going to drag on for a while. So, under the circumstances, it won't seem that unusual, you coming along on the voyage.'

'I can't see how that helps,' said Bowen. 'Why should the owner know any less than the crew?'

Kate smiled. 'For a lot of yacht owners, a luxury yacht is just a floating den. Another expensive toy. Believe me, it's not uncommon for these guys to know jack shit about their own boats.' She was enjoying this. 'So, it's possible your complete and total ignorance won't be noticed.'

'OK.' Bowen looked around with a proprietorial air. 'You know, I always did kind of fancy owning one of these things.'

'I also took the liberty of inviting Sam Brockman to join our crew and make up the numbers.'

'Sam Brockman?' Bowen couldn't help but look disappointed. 'From the US Coast Guard?'

Kate noted the look on his face and smiled. Coast Guard. That was a laugh. More like bodyguard, just in case Bowen was thinking of trying anything when they were at sea.

'Well, think about it. It would have looked odd with just me crewing,' said Kate. 'And after all, it is his department's boat, at least until it goes up for auction. We're going to pick him up at the Lake Mabel station on our way down to SYT's cargo terminal.'

Bowen tried to feel positive about Sam Brockman's imminent arrival on board. 'I'm sure it's a good idea. Especially with all his, um, nautical knowledge.'

But Kate hadn't finished. 'That does of course mean that when we're in company we ought not to be too familiar with each other. I'll call you sir, as usual. Everyone'll assume you're just another Miami plutocrat with more money than sense. Sir.'

'I've no problem with any of that, Kate.' Bowen was already thinking of a way to exploit his new status as a rich boat owner. 'You know what? I'm going to find a bathroom.'

'Head, sir.'

For a moment Bowen couldn't believe his luck.

'I beg your pardon?'

'On board ship, sir, we call the bathroom the head.'

'Oh. The head. Whatever. Well, that's where I'm headed, anyway.' He laughed. Now he had thought of a way. 'Then I'm going to find me a cold beer and, like any convincing plutocrat with more money than sense, I'm going to put my feet up for a while and I'm going to watch the big game on TV.'

'We really ought to finish our tour of the boat, sir,' advised Kate. 'There's still a lot you should know about. The engines. The communications system. The ship's computers.'

Bowen shook his head. 'Kate? The only thing I want to see right now is the Chiefs taking the Dolphins apart.' Noting Kate's expression, he added, 'I'm from Kansas, remember?' He walked back down the steps. 'Let me know when we're underway, Captain. I'll be in my quarters.'

Kate watched him go, mouthing a silent 'asshole' at Bowen's back. A second or two later she had the satisfaction of hearing him fall down the circular stair connecting the midship accommodations deck with the formal salon and dining room.

'Asshole,' she said and climbed the portside companionway to the wheelhouse skylounge, where she began to get to grips with the Carrera's computer-based dynamic reporting system. She was almost disappointed to discover how easy it would be to sail the boat. With its exhaustive on-line diagnostic testing and troubleshooting, the Carrera was so well equipped that even Bowen could have piloted it. And she wished that the part of her mission in which she was actually obliged to sail the boat could have lasted longer than the few minutes it would take to cruise down to Port Everglades.

Kate started the engines and then went out on deck to pull up fenders. She might have asked Bowen for help except for the inevitable joke that it would have produced:

Now Kate, you don't have to worry about fending me off...

Kate's lip wrinkled with distaste. 'Not any more,' she said, and began to pull on a rope she wished had been knotted around Bowen's stupid neck.

Chapter THIRTEEN

Jack Jellicoe, master of the Grand Duke, stood on the bridge wing and surveyed the scene below him with mounting distaste. It was bad enough that he was obliged to transport these expensive toys across the Atlantic -- if they'd bought proper yachts with sails in the first place they might have made the crossing unaided. It was bad enough that he had to have contact with their overpaid and underqualified captains -- most of them didn't know a fart from a fo'c'sle. It was bad enough to learn that some of the obscenely rich bastards who owned the floating Tupperware now being sailed onto his ship would be coming along on the voyage. But to be told by his own shipping agent that their owners, captains and crews were to be allowed free access to their vessels during the voyage was more than the tall Englishman could stomach.

'Let me get this straight, Mister Sedeno,' he said crisply, addressing the smaller, bespectacled man standing beside him. 'You expect me to sail across the Atlantic, one of the most hazardous oceans in the world, to safely deliver $50 million worth of waterproof caravans and motor homes, not to mention their Forbes Five Hundred owners, while at the same time permitting these same flat-footed cretins to clamber about my ship in all weathers without any of them falling overboard and drowning themselves?'

'Come on, Jack,' Sedeno said wearily. 'That's all bullshit. We both know that it won't be particularly hazardous. Going via the Canary Islands is not a route in which you'll encounter all weathers, as you say.'

Jellicoe stared off to starboard as if searching the dockside for a better argument. 'Well, what about the ship's insurers? What do they have to say about it?'

'We are only responsible for each vessel. Not for the supernumeraries who come aboard them. They have made their own personal insurance arrangements.'

Jellicoe thought for a moment, his long bony jaw quivering as he racked his brain for yet one more objection.

'Batteries,' he said triumphantly. 'Ships' batteries.'

'What about them?'

'Only this: that if they go on board their yachts, where will they get their power? Eh?' A small grin of satisfaction appeared on his lean bearded face. 'Tell me that, if you can? Without running engines their batteries will be flat in no time. And I'd like to see the multi-millionaire who can do without his microwave lobster dinner and the TV to watch while he's stuffing it down his neck.'

Sedeno shrugged.

'Many of them have solar power panels, while others need only run their engines in neutral to charge up their batteries. This can be organized in rotation, so as to minimize any fire risk. No, this is not a problem.'

Jellicoe twitched visibly. 'Next thing you'll be asking me to organize a game of quoits on deck. I'm the master of a cargo ship, not a cruise captain. What am I supposed to do with them? I've enough to do with the running of this ship without the

effort of being nice.'

'Jack, Jack, surely that's not much of an effort,' argued Sedeno.

One of the other two officers who were on the bridge laughed out loud and Jellicoe looked around angrily. Like himself they were dressed in the tropical uniform of the British Merchant Navy -- white shoes, white socks, white shorts, white shirts with epaulettes, and white cap.