Which meant that he was a glorified mule. Just like the girls who ferried coke up from Colombia, he would be earning his fee by putting himself at risk. Each leg of the journey would be dangerous and the peril would escalate as the trip continued. Wilson understood that there were dozens of things that could go wrong, with the greatest exposure at the points of transaction. Until he turned over the diamonds to Hakim, his ass was on the line.
It was quite a résumé to compile in a short stretch of time: drug trafficker, arms dealer, gem smuggler. But the rewards were commensurate with the risks. If it wasn’t the safest way for someone with no funds to make a lot of money, but it was the fastest.
The ship was an odd sight, the huge deck holding as many as a hundred or more containers, different in color but each the size of a small cottage. About two thirds of the way between the prow and stern, the clean, white, many-windowed bridge hove into view, like a castle looking down on a shantytown.
The driver dismissed them with a curt nod, their signal to get out.
Zero and Khalid carried their well-worn backpacks, as well as the Diadora bags that held their weapons. Wilson’s wheeled suitcase seemed conspicuous as they crossed the ship’s gangway. He pushed in the handle and carried it by the strap.
It was six flights of metal steps up to the bridge. Khalid, a heavy smoker, gasped.
They found the first officer on the bridge, drinking coffee and tapping away at a computer. Shaking Wilson’s hand with a firm grip, he wore a big smile, showing large white teeth. Struggling to find enough English, the officer explained that he was in charge of the cargo, of which they were technically a part.
Zero asked a question in Arabic.
The first officer looked at Zero as if he hadn’t noticed him before and now that he’d focused, didn’t like what he saw. A fleeting expression of distaste came and went, followed by a dismissive shake of the head. “Maybe two hours,” he said in English.
Wilson’s bodyguards were placed in Spare Officer Cabin #3; Wilson in Spare Officer Cabin #4.
“Not bad,” Khalid said, as the seaman opened the door on a utilitarian space. “Look, TV.”
“Only Turkish videos,” said the seaman who’d escorted them. “Facilities down hall. You need, you go now, then you stay here until someone get you.” He held forth an admonishing finger. He ushered Wilson down the hall toward his cabin and repeated the advice with exactly the same intonation.
Wilson surveyed the space – bed, sink, mirror, built-in wardrobe and chest of drawers, TV, CD player – then stretched out on the bunk. There was something cell-like about it, although it did have a window.
When a container settled onto the deck, there was not much noise, but he felt it. The ship shuddered beneath the thin mattress, reminding him of similar moments in prison when gates slammed shut, or thick electronically controlled doors thudded to a close.
Because he had never been on a ship before, Wilson would have liked to watch the mechanics of its departure. He would also have enjoyed exploring the vessel itself. And then, too, he wanted a cigarette.
Instead, he was required to wait, but that was something he was good at. Whatever normal impatience he might once have had, prison had obliterated. In an interval such as this, in the absence of any real tension, he was free of yearning.
He pulled from his wallet the computer-printed photograph of Irina and looked at her for a moment. It was small, just a little larger than a postage stamp, small enough that it did not need to be folded. It fit easily into one of the slots in his wallet intended for credit cards. He knew from experience how destructive repeated folding could be – even to a letter, let alone an image.
And this image was not even of good quality, printed out as it was from a Kinko’s computer onto ordinary paper. He had cut Irina’s picture from a gallery of Ukrainian girls (thirty-two to the page) all looking for an American suitor, all smiling.
The women were not looking for love. He knew that. They were looking for a ticket. A ticket out.
He had selected Irina on the basis of a thumb-sized image of mediocre quality, and yet, as he looked at her face, some generosity of spirit shone through. He had e-mailed her twice through the auspices of ukrainebrides.org, which acted as a broker and an intermediary. It solicited memberships, the cost calibrated to the number of women you could contact. It published pictures and biographical notes on the available girls. It outlined and enforced the proper steps of courtship, from the exchange of letters, to the delivery of chocolates and flowers, all of which might one day culminate in a “romantic visit.” Ukrainebrides would also arrange temporary visas for prenuptial visits and, eventually, marriage ceremonies.
Or one might follow a more direct route, signing on for a “romance tour,” during which an interested man might attend, in locales from Yalta to Kiev, parties at which fifteen to twenty “suitors” would roam a crowd of a hundred available women.
Wilson was following the traditional “courtship” route, starting with the exchange of letters. His first e-mail contained a brief description of himself as the well-off thirty-year-old businessman Francisco d’Anconia, currently in the import/export trade. Her reply, demure and hesitant, told him she worked as a waitress in a coffee shop in Odessa. She lived with her parents and two sisters. Although he reminded himself that her halting language was due to the linguistic inadequacy of the translator, and not childlike innocence, it still charmed him.
His second message was more of a love letter, praising her beauty, setting forth his own desire for “someone to share my life with.” This was true. After, he did not want to be alone. He’d spent enough time alone. After, he wanted to share his life with a woman. He wanted a family. Her reply was an outpouring of poetic longing made all the more touching by the fractured syntax.
He returned the photograph to his wallet. The chance of meeting a worthy lifemate through a commercial matchmaker called ukrainebrides.org would be the equivalent of hitting the lottery. He knew that.
On the other hand, he didn’t believe in coincidence. Was it only chance that placed him on the Marmara Queen – which was taking him and his drums of molasses to within a few miles of Irina’s home?
As he punched up the pillows and kicked off his shoes and let his eyes fall closed, Irina’s smiling face remained in his field of vision. He fell asleep in the soft envelope of imagined domestic bliss.
The vibration woke him, a powerful thrum. For a moment, he was alarmed. The sensation seemed to be coming from within him, a destructive resonance. When he realized what it was – the ship’s engines had started – he laughed at himself. A few minutes later, he heard the clanking of the anchor chains as they were winched aboard.
They were under way.
It wasn’t long before a chirpy little guy rapped on the door. The man had been sent by the first officer to give the promised tour. He was the third officer, he told them, and his name was Hasan. He smiled, disarmingly, showing two gold teeth front and center. “This is a very fine ship. Hasan is happy to show you around.”
First, the lifeboats. Khalid scratched his head and frowned, eyeing the distance from the boats to the water. “Hasan can promise you these will not be necessary.”
Zero was selected to model the life jacket, giggling as Hasan tightened the straps.
They reviewed the location of fire extinguishers and Hasan demonstrated how to use one.
Safety issues dispensed with, they were shown around the galley, the dining room, and then the game room. Khalid’s eyes lit up at this spartan area – boasting dartboard, chess set, foosball, and Ping-Pong table.
All the time, the officer peppered them with details about the ship. He showed them the bridge, with its view to the horizon above a deck crowded with containers, then took them down to the engine room, a vast and immaculate space, with huge brass pistons pumping away. It smelled heavily of oil.