The QE2 Is Missing

Ginzberg smiled benignly at the wide-eyed expressions on their faces, shock that turned to glee. He accepted the offer of a small glass of whisky and Uzi poured it for him.

“Let us hope,” Uzi said. “Let us pray that we get it right. This could be the big one that we have been working for all these years.”

They raised their glasses and drank.

13

The city of Acapulco baked in the tropical sun, burning down out of the Pacific blue of the sky. However, out to sea, heavy dark clouds banked up higher and higher, hung with gray sheets of rain that trailed down to the ocean below. Their threatening blackness was lit occasionally by bolts of lightning, but they were still too far away from the sound of thunder to be heard on land. The occupants of the two cars drawn up on the shore road, Costera Aleman, looked at the approaching storm with uncertain speculation. For the guards baking in the Volkswagen, the rain might bring a welcome relief from the stifling heat. They had all of the windows in the car rolled down but there was no escape. However, in the Mercedes the engine and air conditioning were running, so it was cool and comfortable.

“I would like to drive soon, Herr Doktor,” Klaus said, leaning back and sliding open the glass partition behind the driver’s seat so he could be heard.

“We are still eating,” Wielgus said, a cold leg of chicken in his hand, specks of meat and grease on his lips.

“I’m very sorry, sir, but the engine is beginning to overheat, standing like this. If we could drive, the moving air would cool it down and then we could stop again after a bit.”

“All right. In a few minutes.” He held out his glass and General Starke filled it with chilled Brauneberger-Jusser-Sonnenuhr. “I don’t like the look of those clouds, Starke. That could be a bad storm, a hurricane perhaps.”

“I don’t think so. The weather report on the radio this morning just mentioned heavy tropical storms, rain, some wind.”

“ And wind means waves and, verdamte, I can’t stand being at sea. I am prone to seasickness. And there comes the ship now. I can feel my stomach heave at the sight. Please put the food away…. “

He wiped his lips with the linen napkin and dropped it into the basket on the seat between them. Out to sea the QE2 had appeared suddenly out of a sheet of rain, headed for the harbor, seemingly running before the storm.

“No need to worry on a ship this size,” Starke said, closing the basket and putting it onto the floor. He took a cigar case from his pocket. “I read the propaganda that came in the envelope with the tickets. Over sixty-seven thousand tons. Computerized stabilizers. Twin propellers. One hundred and ten thousand horsepower and a cruising speed of twenty-eight and a half knots. This ship will ride out any storm, then quickly leave it behind. Don’t be concerned, old friend.” He had read through the brochure once; the figures would be remembered forever. Starke had the precise memory needed for military planning, and had been on the General Staff before being relieved and given a Waffen SS division as punishment for being so bold as to differ with one of Hitler’s more stupid tactical decisions. History had proven that Starke had been right; it was too late to prevent him from being classified as a war criminal for certain orders he had given to his men.

“It is nice of you to reassure me — but I know my stomach. I know what the sea does for me.” He drained his glass and put it into the basket with the rest of the debris. With a nod of thanks he accepted one of Starke’s Havanas and neatly cut a V in the end with the gold clipper from his waistcoat pocket. After blowing out the first pungent cloud of smoke he relaxed slightly; leaning forward, he opened the partition. “All right. A little ride now to cool down the engine. Then to the docks. I want to board as soon as possible without waiting around.”

Libor Chvosta, though born in Plzen in Czechoslovakia, had long since deserted that socialist country for the more profitable capitalist world. He believed only in money, and more money, and did not care in the slightest how it was earned. It was not by chance that he carried a Swiss passport.