Shah frowned. “Spinning up?”
“It means… never mind. Hermelinda, how’s things working out with these guys?”
The supply officer said the three Iranians were good workers. After a couple of incidents, they’d understood certain areas of the ship were off-limits. While she was speaking, the ship’s translator let himself in the half-door. “Bozorgmehr,” Dan said.
“Captain.” The deep bass was impressive as always.
Using Kaghazchi to clarify when necessary, Dan asked about the Iranian’s berthing, his work in the mess, if he’d gotten adequate medical care. Did he have any complaints about how he’d been treated? Shah didn’t, and seemed abjectly grateful, almost fawning. But behind those hooded eyes Dan also suspected something withheld. Something more remote, more separate, and, perhaps, more hostile. Some of the chiefs thought this guy was a spy. He thought that unlikely — only in the movies did you insert spies by floating them on a log where no ship might ever pass — but then again, maybe he shouldn’t rule it out.
More to the point, though, was Colón’s specific mention of Shah’s interest in her. A stalker might cross the line to something more serious, given the opportunity. And someone who worked in the galley, breaking out stores, might know what spaces would be unlocked and untenanted at zero-dark-thirty.
“Do you own a knife, Mr. Shah?”
“No sir. Knife? Never. I have no knife.”
“Do you know Seaman Celestina Colón?”
A visible swallow. “Yes sir. I know her.”
“Attractive, right?”
A short exchange. Kaghazchi said, smiling, “He says, she is indeed.”
“I could understand a guy being attracted,” Dan said. “Hey, we’re all guys here.”
“Not all of us,” said Garfinkle-Henriques from the terminal at her desk.
“Except for the lieutenant, of course.” Dan eyed the Iranian again, trying to gauge not the man, but himself. Whether he, Lenson, was holding some sort of grudge. Certainly he’d suffered at the hands of torturers who looked like Shah. Iraqi, not Iranian, but emotions didn’t respect boundaries. The previous exec, Fahad Almarshadi, had accused him of prejudice. Before killing himself… which Dan still felt responsible for. Why hadn’t he seen the signs? Intervened? Instead, he’d leveled blame.
Maybe it was impossible for human beings to avoid stereotyping, or meet each new face with a complete lack of bias. All he could do was try to set in a certain tare weight against it. Try harder than usual to be objective.
At the same time, someone had stripped and grossly violated Colón. Someone was a clear and present danger to his crew. And so far, Shah was the best suspect.
“Ever been alone with her?” Dan asked.
The guy glanced left and right as if for some avenue of escape. But there was only worn gray paint, dented steel government-issue desks, finger-grimy keyboards, and plastic-housed monitors. “No sir. No.”
“Never?”
“Just to… to talk. In the passage, the passageway. I tell you, Baha’i, good people. No violence. No rape.”
Dan had made it his business to look the Baha’is up. A sort of reformed Islam that, yeah, came across as peaceful and nonviolent. Even faced with the prejudice and discrimination being reported from Iran, including exclusion from jobs and higher education, harassment of their children, and desecration of their cemeteries.
But he had no proof this guy actually was one. Escaping from prison was supposed to be a sin for Baha’is, as it meant breaking the law. And anyway, there were no doubt bad-apple Baha’i’s, too. Christianity, Buddhism, Islam, hadn’t exactly wiped out evil among their members. “She come on to you, Mr. Shah? Put the moves on you?” He told Kaghazchi, “Give him that as colloquial as you can.”
Another short exchange. The translator murmured, “He says no. Just that he thought she was ‘khoshgheli’… very beautiful.”
Dan caught Chief Toan’s worried glance. They weren’t getting anywhere. He could ask the Iranian for fingerprints, a DNA sample, but had nothing to match them against. And he wouldn’t be getting the refugees off the ship for days yet, maybe weeks. He couldn’t even get refueled out here. “Crap,” he muttered.
“Sir?”
“Nothing, Chief.”
Dan’s Hydra beeped. He snatched it off his belt. “Excuse me. Captain here.”
“Sir, TAO. EW reports momentary emitter bearing one-niner-five, consistent with Snoop Tray.”
The Snoop Tray, proper name MRK-50 Albatros, was a mast-mounted submarine radar. “That’s Russian, right?”
“Russian-built, sir, but carried on their export Kilos, too. Including Indian 877s and Chinese Improved 636s. It was operated in periscope mode for approximately fifteen seconds.”
A pop-up, a look around, then submerging again. So, something else to worry about. “Very well. Give the operator an attaboy. Keep a sharp lookout around that bearing, and call me if he pops up again.”
He rebelted the radio, and tried to recall where they’d been. “Chief Toan. Did you have anything you wanted to ask Mr. Shah?”
Toan looked at the guy in the chair, then narrowed his eyes significantly at Dan. He switched his gaze back and forth until Dan frowned, then looked where he was squinting. Jeez, maybe he did need glasses… Yeah. The Iranian was sweating. Moisture glistened at his hairline. Maybe not that damning, from a guy who’d probably been “interviewed” by the Iranian secret police. But not reassuring, either.
Toan said softly, “You don’t own a knife, Mr. Shah?”
“As say, no knife.”
“So you said. Stand up, please.”
The Iranian hesitated, then got up. Toan stepped forward, and with one motion gripped the man’s right arm and thrust his other hand deep into the right pocket of his coveralls.
He pulled out a brass-hilted clasp knife. When Toan flicked out the blade, it was a good three inches long. The stainless gleamed sharp. “Good eye, Chief,” Dan murmured, wondering why he hadn’t caught its outline under the cloth. Well, Toan had been behind the seated Iranian.
“This isn’t a knife?” Toan said.
Shah ducked his head. He looked both agitated and guilty. “Oh, that, yes. I found. I forget I have it. Only a small knife. For pencils.”
“Been sharpening a lot of them on the mess decks, have we?” Dan braked his sarcasm, and rose. “I think that’s enough. To restrict him, anyway. Chief, what’ve we got for a makeshift brig?”
“No designated space, Captain. I’ll have to figure something out. Meanwhile—” The chief produced a set of handcuffs from behind him, probably hooked into the back of his belt.
Instead of submitting, the Iranian threw his hands off, shoved him away. Shouted, at the top of his voice. Toan staggered back and collided with the bulkhead as the refugee ran for the door.
But his path led right through Dan. His eyes met the Iranian’s, and the man hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. When he regathered himself and came on again, Dan braced both hands on his chest, pushing Shah back into Toan’s arms. The chief master-at-arms, who’d bounced back off the bulkhead like a rubber ball, pinioned him from behind. The Iranian’s right fist, still free, cocked back. His eyes gleamed feral, terrified.
Then the spark died. His shoulders slumped. Without further resistance, he allowed Toan to pull both hands behind his back. The cuffs click-ratcheted home. “I am sorry,” he muttered. “I was afraid. There is nowhere left to run.”
Dan said, “We’re not going to hurt you, Mr. Shah. There’ll be an investigation. Then a trial. A fair one. With legal counsel.”