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LeSeur nodded. Kemper said nothing.
“And now, forgive me if I leave in haste.” And with that he bowed, turned, and stepped out of the vault.
In the elevator, ascending to Deck 12, Pendergast paused to remove the list from his pocket. He drew a line through Lord Cliveburgh and another through Dallas. He did not draw a line through Strage.
20
CONSTANCE GREENE WALKED DOWN THE ELEGANT CORRIDOR, Marya Kazulin at her side. She felt an unaccustomed thrill—the thrill of mystery, deceit, and investigation.
“The uniform fits you perfectly,” Kazulin whispered in her thick accent.
“Thank you for bringing it to my suite.” “Is nothing. Uniforms are the only thing we have in plenty. Except for dirty laundry maybe.”
“I’m unfamiliar with this type of shoe.”
“Work shoes. The kind that nurses wear. They have a soft sole, like sneakers.”
“Sneakers?”
“Is that not the word?” Marya frowned. “Now remember, as cabin steward you are not to speak to passengers except when in their cabins on business. Do not make eye contact with anyone we pass. Step to one side and look down.”
“Understood.”
Marya led the way around a corner, then through an unmarked hatchway. Beyond lay a linen room and a bank of two service elevators. Marya walked up to the elevators, pressed the down button. “Who is it you wish to speak to?”
“The people who clean the large suites, the duplexes and triplexes.”
“They are the ones who speak better English. Like me.”
The elevator doors slid open and they entered. “Some of the workers don’t speak English?” Constance asked.
Marya pressed the button for Deck C and the elevator began to descend. “Most of the crew speak no English. The company likes it better that way.”
“Cheaper labor?”
“Yes. Also, if we ca
“What’s wrong with the work conditions?”
“You shall see for yourself, Ms. Greene. Now, you must be very careful. If you are caught, I will be fired and put off ship in New York. You must pretend to be foreign, speak broken English. We must find you a language nobody else speaks so you will not be questioned. Do you have any language other than English?”
“Yes. Italian, French, Latin, Greek, German—”
Marya laughed, genuinely this time. “Stop. I think no Germans in crew. You will be German.”
The doors slipped open onto Deck C and they stepped out. The difference between the passenger decks and the service decks was apparent immediately. There was no carpeting on the floor, artwork on the walls, or brightwork trim. It looked more like a hospital corridor, a claustrophobic landscape of metal and linoleum. Fluorescent tubes, hidden behind recessed ceiling panels, threw a harsh light over the scene. The air was stuffy and uncomfortably warm, freighted with numerous scents: cooked fish, fabric softener, machine oil. The deep thrum of the diesel engines was far more pronounced here. Crew members, some in uniform, some in T-shirts or dirty sweats, bustled past, intent on their duties. Marya led the way down the narrow corridor. Numbered, windowless doors of imitation wood grain lined both sides. “This is dormitory deck,” Marya explained in a low voice. “Women in my bunk do some large cabins, you speak with them. We say you are friend I met in laundry. Remember, you are German and your English is not good.”
“I’ll remember.”
“We need reason why you ask questions.”
Constance thought a moment. “What if I say I do the smaller rooms and want to better my position?”
“Okay. But do not be too eager—people here will stab you in back for a job with better tips.”
“Understood.”
Marya turned down another corridor, then stopped before a door. “This my room,” she said. “Ready?”
Constance nodded. Marya took a deep breath, then opened the door.
The room beyond was as small as a prison cell, perhaps fourteen feet by ten. Six narrow lockers were set into the far wall. There were no chairs or tables, no adjoining bath. The walls to the left and right were occupied entirely by spartan bunks, set three high. At the head of each bunk was a small shelf, topped by a light. As Constance looked around, she noticed that each of these shelves was filled with books, photos of loved ones, dried flowers, magazines—a small, sad imprint of the individual who occupied the bunk.
“There are
six
of you in here?” she asked incredulously.
Marya nodded.
“I had no idea conditions were so cramped.”
“This nothing. You should see Deck E, where the NPC staff sleep.”
“NPC?”
“No Passenger Contact. Crew who do laundry, wash engine rooms, prepare food.” Marya shook her head. “Like prison. They no see daylight, no breathe fresh air, for three, four months maybe. Work six days week, ten hours a day. Pay is twenty to forty dollars a day.”
“But that’s less than minimum wage!”
“Minimum wage where? We are nowhere—in middle of sea. No wage law here. Ship registered in Liberia.” She looked around. “My bunkmates in mess already. We find them there.”
She traced a circuitous path through the narrow, sweat-fragrant corridors, Constance close behind. The crew dining area was located amidships, a large, low-ceilinged room. Crew members, all in uniform, sat at long cafeteria-style tables, heads bent over their plates. As they took their places in the buffet line, Constance looked around, shocked at the plai
“It’s so quiet,” she said. “Why aren’t people talking?”
“Everyone tired. Also, everyone upset about Juanita. Maid who went crazy.”
“Crazy? What happened?”
She shook her head. “Is not uncommon, except it usually happen at end of long tour. Juanita go crazy . . . rip out own eyes.”
“Good God. Did you know her?”
“A little.”
“Did she seem to have any problems?”
“We all of us have problems,” Marya said, quite seriously. “Otherwise not take this job.”
They made their lunch choices from an unappetizing variety—fatty slices of boiled corned beef, waterlogged cabbage, mushy rice, gluey shepherd’s pie, anemic-looking squares of yellow sheet cake—and Marya led the way to a nearby table, where two of her bunkmates picked listlessly at their plates. Marya made the introductions: a young, dark-haired Greek woman named Nika, and Lourdes, a middle-aged Filipina.
“I have not seen you before,” Nika said in a thick accent.
“I’m assigned to cabins on Deck 8,” Constance replied, careful to add a German accent of her own.
The woman nodded. “You must be careful. This isn’t your mess. Don’t let her see you.” She nodded toward a short, hirsute, thickset woman with frizzy bottle-blonde hair, standing in a far corner and surveying the room with a scowl.