“Admiral Sandecker said this was a singularly uncommon ship,” said Pitt, replacing the automatic in his tote bag. “But he didn't say anything about the crew.”
“If we can dispense with the theatrics,” said Smith, “I'll show you below.” He dropped down the ladder through the narrow hatch and disappeared. Pitt and Giordino followed, finding themselves in a brightly lit, carpeted hallway whose walls were painted in pastel colors. Smith opened a smoothly varnished door and nodded inside. “You can share this cabin. Stow your gear, get comfortable, use the head and then I'll introduce you to the captain. You'll find his cabin behind the fourth door on the port side aft.”
Pitt stepped inside and switched on the light. This was no Spartan cabin on a decrepit freighter. It was every bit as swank as any stateroom on a luxury cruise ship. Ornately decorated leading to a private veranda. The only suggestion of the outside world was a porthole painted black. “What,” exclaimed Giordino, “no bowl of fruit?”
Pitt stared around the cabin in fascination. “I wonder if we have to dress formal when we dine with the captain.”
They heard the anchor chain rattle up out of the water and felt the engines begin to throb through the deck under their feet as the Oregon began beating her way across Manila Bay toward her destination in Hong Kong. A few minutes later they knocked on the door to the captain's cabin. A voice on the other side responded. “Please come in.”
If their cabin resembled a deluxe stateroom, this one would have easily rated as the penthouse suite. It resembled a decorator showroom on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. The furniture was expensive yet tasteful. The walls, or bulkheads in nautical terms, were either richly paneled or covered by curtains. The carpet was thick and plush. Two of the paneled walls were covered by original oil paintings. Pitt walked up to one and studied it. The painting inside an ornate frame was a seascape depicting a black man lying on the deck of a small, demasted sloop with a school of sharks swimming around its hull.
“Winslow Homer's Gulf Stream,” said Pitt. “I thought it was hanging in a New York museum.”
“The original is,” said a man standing beside a large antique rolltop desk. “What you see are forgeries. In my line of business no insurance company would insure the real thing.” A handsome man in his mid-forties with blue eyes and blond hair in a crewcut stepped forward and stuck out a manicured hand. “Chairman Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, at your service.” He pronounced Cabrillo as Ka-bree-yo.
“Chairman, like in chairman of the board?”
“A departure from maritime tradition,” Cabrillo explained. “This ship is run like a business, a corporation if you will. The personnel prefer to be assigned corporate titles.”
“That's a twist,” Giordino said equably. “Don't tell me, I'm keen to guess. Your first officer is president.”
Cabrillo shook his head. “No, my chief engineer is president. My first officer is executive vice president.”
Giordino lifted an eyebrow. “This is the first I've heard the Kingdom of Oz owns a ship.”
“You'll get used to it,” Cabrillo said tolerantly.
“If I recall my California history,” said Pitt, “you discovered California in the early fifteen hundreds.”
Cabrillo laughed. “My father always claimed Cabrillo the explorer as an ancestor, but I've had my doubts. My grandparents walked across the border at Nogales from Sonora, Mexico, in nineteen thirty-one and became American citizens five years later. In honor of my birth they insisted my mother and father name me after a famous historical figure in California.”
“I believe we've met before,” said Pitt. “Like about twenty minutes ago,” added Giordino. “Your imitation of a waterfront derelict, Chairman Cabrillo, alias Mr. Smith, was very professional.”
Cabrillo laughed merrily. “You gentlemen are the first to see through my disguise as a rum-soaked barnacle.” Unlike his staged character, Cabrillo was well-built and slightly on the thin side. The hook nose was gone, along with the tattoos and the overstuffed belly.
“I must admit, you had me fooled until I saw the van.” “Yes, our shore transportation is not quite what it appears.” “This ship,” said Pitt, “your playacting, the facade, what's it all about?”
Cabrillo gestured for them to sit in a leather sofa. He walked over to a teak bar. “A glass of wine?” “Yes, thank you.” “I'd prefer a beer,” said Giordino. Cabrillo poured and held out a mug to Giordino. “A Philippine San Miguel.” Then a wineglass to Pitt. “Wattle Creek Chardonnay from Alexander Valley, California.”
“You have excellent taste,” Pitt complimented Cabrillo. “I have the feeling it extends to your kitchen.”
Cabrillo smiled. “I pirated my chef from a very exclusive restaurant in Brussels, Belgium. I might also add that should you get heartburn or indigestion from overindulging, we have an excellent hospital staffed by a top surgeon who doubles as a dentist.”
“I'm curious, Mr. Cabrillo, what sort of trade is the Oregon engaged in, and who exactly do you work for?”
“This ship is a state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering vessel,” Cabrillo replied without hesitation. “We go where no U.S. Navy warship can go, enter ports closed to most commercial shipping and transport highly secret cargo without arousing suspicion. We work for any United States government agency that requires our unique array of services.”
“Then you're not under the CIA.”
Cabrillo shook his head. “Although we're staffed by a few ex-intelligence agents, the Oregon is operated by an elite crew of former naval men and naval officers, all of whom are retired.”
“I couldn't tell in the dark. What flag do you fly?”
“Iran,” replied Cabrillo with a faint smile. “The last country any port authority would identify with the United States.”
“Am I correct in assuming,” said Pitt, “you're all mercenaries?”
“I can honestly say we're in business to make a profit, yes. By performing a variety of clandestine services for our country, we are paid extremely well.”
“Who owns the ship?” asked Giordino.
“Everyone on board is a stockholder in the corporation,” answered Cabrillo. “Some of us own more stock than others, but there isn't a single crew member who hasn't at least five million dollars stashed away in foreign investments.”
“Does the IRS know about you?”
“The government has a secret fund for operations like ours,” Cabrillo explained. “We have an arrangement whereby they pay our fees through a network of banks in countries that do not open their records to IRS auditors.”
Pitt took a sip of his wine. “A sweet setup.”
“But one that isn't unknown to peril and occasional disaster. The Oregon is our third ship. The others were destroyed by unfriendly forces. I might add that over thirteen years we've been in operation, we've lost no fewer than twenty men.”
“Foreign agents caught on to you?”
“No, we've yet to be unmasked. There were other circumstances.” Whatever they were, Cabrillo didn't explain them.
“Who authorized this trip?” inquired Giordino.
“Between you and me and the nearest porthole, our sailing orders came from within the White House.”
“That's about as high as you can go.”
Pitt looked at the captain. “Do you think you can put us reasonably close to the United States? We have a couple of acres of hull to inspect, and our time underwater is limited due to the Sea Dog IFs battery power. If you have to moor the Oregon a mile or more away, just getting to the liner and back will cut our downtime considerably.”
Cabrillo stared back at him confidently. “I'll put you near enough to fly a kite over her funnels.” Then he poured himself another glass of the chardonnay and held it up. “To a very successful voyage.”