The QE2 Is Missing

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.

“Pretty ritzy,” Nino said as they followed their guide down the corridor and into the elevator.

“Not exactly the phrase I would use, but an accurate summation.”

“You talk to this tomato a bit, alone. I want to look around. I won’t be long. Tell her how great she is or something, but don’t start the interview until I get…”

“To tell you the truth I never heard of her before I got this assignment. Do you perhaps know what she does?”

Nino raised his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief. “Where do you live, John? Under a barrel? This broad must have made a million bucks writing tit books. Even I read them, and I don’t read much usually. Real horny stuff. Maybe you can make out.”

“Not really what I had in mind.”

“This is the cabin, sir,” the attendant said, accepting the proferred banknote with the assuredness of one who had done it many times before. Nino vanished as Rivelles knocked on the door.

“It’s open. Come on in,” a woman’s voice called from the other side.

He turned the handle and entered and was treated to the sight of Sheila Conrad — who had obviously prepared herself for his visit. She was sitting on the couch with her back to the window, the warm antipodean light pouring over her. Rivelles’s first reaction was that there was a lot of girl there, and a good deal of it was exposed for his consideration. She wore an expensive-looking black dress; with diamonds so ostentatious that they had to be real. Her arms were resting lightly on the back of the couch, her legs crossed so that the short dress rode well up onto her thighs.

“You’re from Newsweek, right?”

“Correct. My pleasure, Ms. Conrad.”

“Call me Sheila. That’s what your crummy book reviewer did when he laid into my last novel. Just plain Sheila. Never bothered to mention I had a last name. Nothing but dirty digs and insults. A creep. The highbrows never like my stuff. I hope you do better.”

“I adore your work… Sheila.” He adored her inescapable cleavage too, rising up to him with pink exuberance. “I have been looking forward to this interview with a great deal of pleasure.”