Sabotage (6 page)

Rove opened a sliding closet, and chuckled. Inside were three plush Frette robes and accompanying silk kimonos. Just what he needed. He visited the bathroom; from a steaming whirlpool tub, he could soon lie back and enjoy the moving azure seascape. Egyptian cotton bath towels dangled from a golden bar. Furnishing the main bedroom were maritime tokens, including shadow boxes of sailor's knots and antique compasses. A tablet engraved with names of former
Pearl Enchantress
captains rested above a model helm.

Above the king bed hung a portrait of a man in uniform, an officer with one hand at his sword's scabbard and the other on his vessel's wheel. His baldness was offset by a tapered beard. Medallions decorated his outfit alongside a sash, while scarlet epaulets confirmed his rank as highest in the cruise fleet. Rove admired the dignity of the painting's subject, noting a resemblance to the infamous Captain Bligh. A plaque beneath the portrait read,
Clifford Pearl, Founder of the Intercontinental Line.

Rove lay across the bed, staring up at the white ceiling. Strange as it felt, luxury was his.

A rap at the door roused him.

He squinted through the peephole and saw an elderly man standing outside, a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles perched low on his nose. Age had worn traces of kindness into the crevices of his face. His head was encased in sterling hair. A tailored three-piece suit gave him a spry look and accentuated a chest that was permanently inflated like a puffin's. His sleeves tapered to white gloves and hung at his side, his right cuff scraping the chain of a pocket watch.

Rove opened the door and took an instant liking to the stranger.

“
Bonjour,
Monsieur Rove!” the man said, his voice somewhere in the registers of a didgeridoo. “
Hola, y bienvenido a la magnífica
Pearl Enchantress.
Ni hao
. My name is Lachlan Fawkes, and I will be your faithful, devoted steward for the next hundred and twenty-five days. I have come to make my …
gran introducción.
”

The man bowed at the waist, holding his left arm bent and tracing circles in front of his upper torso with his right. The sight of this spritely old man put a smile on Rove's face.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fawkes. Word on the street is the United Nations still hires translators.”

“Every day a new surprise, mate. Call me Lachlan. The pleasure's all mine, and I'm honored to serve you on this most
tremendous
voyage. I've brought up your luggage on my petite dolly.” He gestured grandly, imitating a pontifical French accent. Then he dropped the accent and staged a deadpan. “Which, I must say, was almost too heavy for me to even hoist onto this bloody hauler. You must be taking your whole damned mansion with you.”

“Close,” Rove said. “Scuba gear.”

“Ever heard of equipment rentals?”

“I prefer my own.”

“Ding-a-ling!” crooned the man. “Folks, we've got a curious case on our hands. Brings his own diving gear to save a little moolah, blows it all on the penthouse. I smell a puzzle”—he winked playfully—“or a dotty bloke indeed.”

“I'm riding courtesy of a friend.”

“If only my friends were as generous as yours.”

“We didn't know each other long.”

“What did you do? Ransom his kid?”

“Something like that.”

The old man whistled. “Really, now? This cruise turns out to be more than I bargained for.” Fawkes captured the air of performing before a rolling movie camera, yet Rove appreciated the sincerity of his warmth. “Where do you hail from?”

“Sometimes Texas, sometimes Mexico.” He paused, looking over his steward from head to toe. “And despite your near-perfect accent, you are certainly no Frenchman. I'm guessing you're from Down Under.”

“Aussie all the way,” Fawkes said. He turned sly. “A tasty slice of the Outback, say the sheilas.”

“Wouldn't doubt it. Before boarding, I didn't realize I'd have a butler.”

“
Steward,
good friend. I abhor the other term.”

“Pardon me.”

“No worries, mate. There's plenty of us onboard, but only the high rollers get their own
personal
steward. It's not a one-to-one ratio for everyone, you see. So love me while you got me.” Fawkes placed a hand on the dolly. “I'm on call for you twenty-four-seven. My quarters are right beside yours. If you need me, all you have to do is press the button on your phone or knock at my door, and your wish is my command. Or just bloody bang on the wall. I'll hear you. Before anything else, let me unload your baggage.”

“I can do it,” Rove said.

“Hands off. They have to pay me for something.” With little strain, Fawkes hoisted Rove's suitcases upright and rolled them into the cabin. “Might I interest you in a creamy Kahlúa cocktail?”

“Perhaps in a bit.”

“A punchy Kahlúa cocktail?”

“No Kahlúa for now. Thanks.”

“Tequila then? Or just plain ol' Adam's ale?”

“Appreciated, just not thirsty yet.” Few people made Rove as curious as his new steward, and even fewer so immediately. “How long have you worked for Pearl Voyages?” Rove asked him.

Fawkes pursed his lips. “Since the start of the company.”

“You must know the founder.”

“Knew him before he became a maritime icon. Cliffy and I go back. The nice thing about knowing a bloke before he makes it big: You still get to use his cute old nickname.”

That was interesting, Rove thought. He was vaguely familiar with the line's beginnings. Pearl Voyages had formed during a time of consolidation in the shipping industry, by a man reputed as a ruthless opportunist with unusual devices. Biographies indicated Clifford Pearl had kept a Rolodex full of private investigators he employed to blackmail competitors. Lawsuits had been filed against him in the sixties; allegedly, he would gather destructive corporate evidence and tip select investment banks to short-sell stock. Cases were either dismissed or settled quietly.

“What did you do before stewarding?” Rove asked.

“Oh, I worked all sorts of odd jobs in my youth, from packing meat to tarring roofs to conducting locomotives. You could say I was a nomad. After moving to the States, I settled. No more drifting. Met Cliffy in Manhattan. He was the president of Wilkenson and Company, an old transporter of petrochemicals.”

“I've heard of them.”

“Bet you have. In sixty-four Cliffy bought three competing businesses and turned them into Pearl Voyages. The line put its first ship, the
Prince Toreador,
into service within two years. Looked more like a tugboat or a dinky yacht if you ask me. He needed workers to clean it up. With enough elbow grease shed by yours truly under a burning sun, we turned that woeful, barnacle-skinned bath-duck into a love boat for the starry-eyed.”

Rove wondered how well the steward had known Pearl, and how much truth there was to his reputation. He felt it would have been rude to ask.

“And soon he had a small navy to his name,” Rove said.

“Oh, yes. The line's capacity doubled with the addition of the
Savoir Swift
. By 1972 the Pearl fleet held the second and third largest passenger vessels afloat, among a total of six ships.”

“Impressive. Did you ever captain any of them?”

“Me? Heavens, no! I had no sailing experience and wasn't about to learn. But I could clean up hell's pits and make 'em glisten. I was the handyman, the waiter, the brass-shiner, whatever he needed. That's how I made a quid.”

“And here you are, steward of the presidential suite.”

“Penthouse, my friend. Cliffy was always good to me. His blood's worth bottling, that man. He could have left me to sneeze in the dust, but he kept me under his payroll. Otherwise…” Fawkes clapped his hands loudly. “I'd not have had a brass razoo! But there I go again, getting all windy about myself. I should write a book,
Memoirs of a Deck Swab.
”

“A well-dressed deck swab, I'd add. I'll look for your memoir when it hits the shelves.”

“Let's have your story then, mate. Retired, by the looks of you?”

“A former Coast Guard LEDET and Air Force combat weatherman.”

“Ah! Rambo the news forecaster, I picture.”

“Not for news,” Rove said. “For air and ground forces.”

Tactical observers known as Special Operations Weather Technicians deployed into hostile and denied territories to gather and assess meteorological data. Trained in combat, these Battlefield Airmen were among the military's most highly skilled warfighters. Their analysis and forecasts were provided in support of counter-terrorism, short-duration strikes, search and rescue, reconnaissance, foreign internal defense, and humanitarian aid. They were experts in land navigation, overland travel, and surface water operations employing amphibious techniques. They were trained in snowmobiling, precision parachuting, motorcycling, rappelling, and fast-rope procedures—all ways to penetrate hostile territories to collect upper air, snow, ocean, river, and terrain intelligence used in mission planning and route forecasting.

“Never heard of such a thing, anyhow,” Fawkes said.

“Most civilians haven't, but we've been around since World War Two.”

The Air Force had deployed special operations weathermen in the European Theater of Operations at Normandy Beach, and earlier in the China-Burma-India Theater against the Japanese. In 1966 the 10
th
Weather Squadron began operating at Udorn Royal Thai Air Force Base, instructing native meteorologists and establishing covert weather observation networks. Their presence proved vital to Operation Ivory Coast, an albeit failed effort to rescue sixty-one American POWs from the Son Tay prison camp near Hanoi. The squadron also positioned along the Ho Chi Minh trail in support of strafing missions against Viet Cong guerrillas and North Vietnamese Army soldiers using those jungle paths. Since the U.S. invasion of Grenada, combat weathermen would directly partake in most modern special operations worldwide.

“Suppose I should mind my own bizzo,” Fawkes said, “but I reckon you've a wealth of stories to share. Forgive me if I pester you about them.” He adjusted his spectacles, reached into his breast pocket, and brandished an envelope with Rove's name inscribed in ornamental cursive. “Almost forgot. A delivery for you.”

Rove broke the seal and removed a folded piece of paper bearing a handwritten message:

Major Rove,

It is our great honor to welcome you to the
Pearl Enchantress.
We trust your journey aboard the fleet's prized ship will be filled with adventure and relaxation. As a presidential passenger, you have access to all elite amenities and services. A personal steward has been assigned to fulfill your round-the-clock needs.

It's with pleasure that I invite you for a private tour of the bridge tomorrow evening, followed by dinner with me and my First Officer, Trevor Kent. Il Ristorante Della Maschera Veneziana has never been known to disappoint. Guests are welcome. If you accept, please meet by the deck fourteen elevators, forward end, at seven o' clock. A bridge hand will escort you to the ship's command center. We hope we can count on your visit.

Sincerely,

Captain Giacomo Selvaggio

“Exciting, isn't it?” Fawkes said. “Traditionally, the invitation goes to the guests of the penthouse.”

“I've always wanted to see the bridge of one of these mammoths,” Rove said.

Fawkes cleared his throat, a twinkle leaping to his eye. “If you don't mind, mate. You seem to be traveling alone, and the letter does specify guests are welcome.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“You could bring me along.”

The request seemed brazen, though he saw no reason to refuse.

“I'd be surprised if you found it interesting, Lachlan. You've been with the company so long, you've probably seen the bridge countless times.”

“Ha! But it's been ages since my last lobster in the Venetian Mask restaurant. And I'll bet you ten to one it's on the menu. We stewards dine from a different galley. A bodgy one. We don't always get a fair crack of the whip, and I'm fed up to the back teeth with our chow. If I've known Chef Piero Greco for a day, lobster would be quite a treat.”

Rove didn't mind at all. “I'll inform the captain that my steward will be my guest.”

“Prego,”
Fawkes said. “I'm delighted. Can't wait to sink my teeth into that succulent sea critter. Now, let's see. I was off to fetch you a creamy Kahlúa cocktail, wasn't I? Excuse me. Better skedaddle.”

The furniture shuddered. Decks below, doors clanged shut as more rumbles emanated from the engine room.

A team of dock hands cast off the mooring lines, and the
Pearl Enchantress
drifted from its berth. A horn shook the marina, sending flocks of gulls into a squawking tizzy. Echoes of the blare ricocheted between piers while bystanders on land waved from afar, bidding the travelers bon voyage. Two labored brays followed the initial horn blast. The floating city began a slow sail toward the harbor's edge.

“We're off!” Fawkes shouted. “Underway—shift colors!”

 

FIVE

Austin doused himself with cold water. He'd found rest elusive during the first half of the night. Morning found him battling a cloak of grogginess that took more than a yawn and a stretch to shake. He had promised himself he wouldn't lose any sleep over Clare's offer—a promise he found exceedingly difficult to keep. A desire to doze off followed him through his morning classes. He sat in the back of the auditoriums in case fatigue got the best of him.

At lunchtime he found Ichiro Yamada and Rachel Mason sharing lunch at Stanford's largest cafeteria at Wilbur Hall. He joined them in their chat about upcoming sports games and soon felt his weariness lifting. During the autumn quarter, Stanford and Berkeley's football teams would fight their most fierce battle in the Big Game, the annual culmination of rivalry between the two schools. Anticipation abounded, as this year's clash would take place on Stanford turf, or “the Farm,” as the campus was nicknamed. The feud between Stanford and Cal Berkeley went back as far as 1892, when Stanford won the first game 14 to 10 under the management of President Herbert Hoover.