The QE2 Is Missing

It was also no day to stay aboard the ship. Because the S.S. Polar Star was a seagoing slum. A piece of rusty filth that disgusted him when he so much as thought about it. The freighter was Liberian registered and captained by a Greek pederast. The First Officer and the Chief Engineer were alcoholics who spent most of their time locked into the cabin with their cases of cheap gin.

With this sort of leadership, the underpaid crew did the minimum amount of work with the maximum amount of complaining. Since Rafael worked in the kitchen he received most of the insults. He couldn’t blame them, the food was terrible, but he still did not enjoy it. Now that they were in port he braved the unbelievable English weather to escape for a while from the stench and dirt of the kitchen. He knew that he carried the smell of it with him on his clothes, so there was no real escape. But he still had to leave, if only for a few hours. Even though there was no decent wine in this harsh country, and he really did not like the beer. Yet he was no longer aboard the Polar Star. That was enough for him.

There was a large green square ahead of him now, with shops and buildings on the far side. One of them was a cafe with lights glowing beckoningly through the misted windows. Good. A hot cup of tea would be very much in order. Perhaps some food, the famous English bacon and egg. He waited for a gap in the heavy, one-way traffic, then hurried across, stepping up onto the pavement in front of a large office building. There were steps leading up to the entrance where a man sheltered from the driving rain, a well-dressed man in a heavy coat and black hat. Rafael was facing in his direction when lightning crashed across the sky again. Rafael could see his face clearly, no more than two meters away.

As the thunder rumbled and rolled, Rafael fell against the stone wall of the building, clutching to it, pressing his face to the rough wet surface.

That face! He knew that face — how he knew it. But not here, certainly not in Southampton. Far across the Atlantic in a warmer, Latin country. Could it really be him?

Rafael turned slowly, still leaning against the building for support. The man remained in the doorway, looking out at the road, ignorant of the sailor nearby.

There could be no doubt. That profile, too familiar by far. The beak of a nose with the filthy little hairline moustache below. It was him.

Rafael started forward just as the man moved. He walked quickly in order to stay dry, just the short distance down the steps and into the open black door of the waiting limousine. The door slammed shut even as Rafael stumbled towards it. He looked in, impotently, through the rain-speckled glass. Staring at Major Jose de Laiglesia sitting in warm comfort and looking at a brochure of some kind, a red and yellow folder.

And then he was gone. The car pulled swiftly out into a gap in the traffic and disappeared from sight. Rafael stood staring numbly after it, unaware of the rain soaking him, aware of nothing except the detested face of the man in the car.

What was he doing here? Where was he going? Why wasn’t he still working at his dirty business back in Paraguay? Oh, how he would like to know the answers to these questions.

Had de Laiglesia come out of this building? There was a good possibility that he had, because he had been standing in the doorway waiting for his car. Rafael looked up at the heavy lettering. SOUTH WESTERN HOUSE, it read, with CUNARD under that. The shipping company? Of course, this was a seaport, perhaps the home port of the line. He walked up the steps and into the lobby. The first thing that he saw was a large advertising display with an immense color photograph of an ocean liner. QUEEN ELIZABETH II it said.

Ranked beside the display were racks of advertising brochures.

One of them was red and yellow.

They were free for the taking. Rafael walked slowly towards the rack, suddenly aware of how wet he was, how hard his heart was pounding in his chest. This wasn’t good. The doctor in Barcelona had told him about the strain that had been placed on his heart, how he should not overexert himself, should not place himself in stressful situations. The hammering within his body frightened him and he walked slowly and carefully as though he were treading on eggs. He took one of the red and yellow folders from the rack and stuffed it into his pocket, then turned and headed still more slowly towards the door.

There was a pub, just a few doors away. He shuffled towards it, clutching fearfully at his chest as though to hold the offended organ in place. The barman drew a pint of beer for him and he fumbled coins onto the stained wood and carried the mug to an empty table near the fire. The pill box was in an inside pocket and he took it out and shook three of them into his palm, then washed them down with the beer. Then rested with his eyes closed until the terrible hammering had slowed.