The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (beach read .TXT) 📕

No coincidences.

“Sir,” Alard said, becoming more insistent. “May I help you? You speak English, correct?”

“Correct.” Ben wheeled on him, flashing his PVC badge. “Agent Tom Porter, Interpol. I need you to get me on that Sea Titan Cargo freighter. Can you do that?”

“I can introduce you to a deck officer staying in the barracks.”

“Good. Let’s go.” In the corner of his eye, Ben saw the foreman, Kent, watching him. He touched Alard’s shoulder. “And before we go to the ship, I’ll need to borrow a hard hat. Safety first.”

28

With a borrowed hard hat in place, Ben followed a sleepy boatswain—or bos’n, as he called himself—up the Sea Titan freighter’s gangplank. A painted name, pale green against the hull’s deep blue, identified her as the Princess of Sheba.

The creature on the bow held the world in the crushing embrace of its coils, and up close, the dragon eyes seemed to follow Ben. He shuddered and shifted his gaze to the back of his escort’s head. “Again, thank you for your time. I’m sorry Alard had to wake you, but a look at your operation will help me wrap my head around the circumstances of this case.”

“Don’t mention it.” The boatswain’s response lacked a certain sincerity. He bobbled his broad head back and forth. “To tell the truth, ya might’ve done me a favor,” he said in a South African accent. “Ya violated my rest period near the end o’ the cycle. By regs, as soon as we’re done here, I can restart the clock fer another six hours o’ rack time.”

At the gangway’s top, an Asian sailor in jeans and a Sea Titan sweatshirt sat slumped in a folding chair. The bos’n kicked a chair leg, and the deckhand snapped to wakefulness. “Mr. Mallory.” He jumped to attention, wiping a bit of drool from his chin. “You are awake.”

“Which is more than I can say fer you, Mr. Shen. This is Agent Porter from Interpol. I’m helpin’ him with an investigation.”

The real Interpol had about as much authority as Barney Fife. But the name’s mystic power still opened doors. Even better, the Interpol gag took advantage of the human propensity for self-inflation.

I’m helping him with an investigation.

After no more psychological prodding than a fake ID and a confident request, the bos’n had appointed himself Ben’s deputy and enforcer.

“An investigation?” Shen asked. “Into the Princess?”

Ben held up a hand. “No, no. Nothing like that. I’m taking a second look at the October bombing.”

“But Sea Titan had no ships at Rotterdam that day.” Shen’s gaze shifted to Mallory, seeking confirmation. “I heard two berthed at this pier were both from Jaspen. The police should talk to them.”

His information made sense. If the bomber came in on a Sea Titan ship, he’d have been offloaded in a container as cargo, left to sit until the ship moved out again. The smart move, as Ben had learned from his own travels through the port, was to let a truck carry the container off-site, well away from port security. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe the truck didn’t come. Maybe the bomber grew impatient. Terrorist organizations ran into unreliable personnel and contractor issues all the time.

Ben kept his smile congenial. “I’m taking over this investigation now that Agent Bolz is in medical retirement. Prostate cancer. Sad story. I’ll talk to the Jaspen crews when they come in day after tomorrow. Right now, I’d like to get a feel for how cargo ops are run when a ship like yours comes in.”

Usually, a download of unnecessary information worked during a con like this, but Shen reached for his radio. “Having Interpol on board is . . . important. I should call the watch officer—ask him to call the captain.”

Not good. Ben had steered Alard toward the bos’n for a reason—a senior deck officer with enough clout to get him on board, but still a bit of a minion, easier to control. Ben didn’t need the captain interfering. He’d stonewall Ben either because Leviathan owned him or because no captain wanted cops boarding his ship without corporate approval.

“Brave man,” Ben said. “I wish I had guts like yours, waking my captain from his crew rest at a five-star hotel.”

Shen paled.

Self-Appointed Deputy Mallory jumped in to help, requiring less prodding than Ben expected. “Ya sayin’ I can’t handle this, Shen?”

“N-no, Mr. Mallory.”

“Ya claimin’ ta know the regs better’n me?”

“No. But I—”

“Shut up, man your post, and don’t bother the cap’n. I’ve got this.”

Shen answered with a fearful nod. “Y-yes, Mr. Mallory.”

He moved to take his seat, but Mallory stole his chair, folding it up with a loud swack. “I daresay ya won’t be needin’ yer chair, since ya jus’ volunteered ta stand for the rest o’ yer shift.” He charged ahead into the underdeck passage with Ben close at his shoulder.

Metallic clangs reverberated through the tunnel in a slow, steady pound—heartbeats in the belly of the beast. They hit Ben’s body with palpable force. The loading and unloading of containers never ceased during a mega freighter’s time at port. “What are you carrying? If you don’t mind me asking.”

The bos’n leaned his stolen chair against the white-painted steel wall and shrugged. “Everythin’ from frozen fish and microwave dinners in the bulk holds ta forty-foot containers filled with glass marbles, picked up in Shanghai.”

“Marbles?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Ever lose any?”

“Ha. Never heard that ’un before. Tell me, Agent Porter. Why’re ya really askin’ me to show ya the Princess? Shen is right. Jaspen had this berth that day. Not us.”

The sleep had worn off, letting the bos’n think more clearly and making Ben’s job harder. In circumstances like this, Ben had always found a touch of truth worked best. He lowered his voice—a man sharing an important secret with a trusted confidant. “We have new evidence.” Ben looked over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure Shen hadn’t followed them. “Our bomber had a fixation on Sea Titan Cargo. I need to know why.”

Mallory burst into laughter, supporting himself with a hand