When Peter and Davila returned from the burned ruins on the Barshman house, Kathleen Argent was waiting for them in the mellow light of her kitchen. She had prepared a small box of snacks, leftovers and bottled water. Somehow, she knew they were leaving. Yet she asked no questions.
Thanking her profusely, Peter and Davila set out on the four-hour drive back across Ireland, not to Rosslare, where they arrived, but Dublin, the capital. Peter dozed in the passenger seat while Davila took the wheel, silent and stern.
A little after midnight, they reached the rendezvous, a shadowy gravel drive outside a sports park in Dublin's industrial district. Davila pulled the white Honda Civic to the left-hand shoulder, killed the engine and tapped the brakes precisely five times. Sixty seconds later, she repeated the signal. She was about to do it a third time when they heard the crunch of tires behind them. A car door opened then closed. Heavy footsteps approached.
The shadow of a huge man loomed at Peter's window. A meaty fist thumped the roof four times. Davila lowered Peter's window, and the man ducked down to peer inside, a tanned and worn face, his brown beard streaked with white.
"Good weather," said Davila.
"Coming and going," the man replied in a Nordic accent. He reached in and shook their hands, Davila's first. The sleeve of his jacket smelled of cigarettes and smoked meats. "My name is Einar Thorkildson, captain of the Gudrun. Come, take your things and get into my car."
It was a tiny electric two-seater, steering wheel on the left. Thorkildson stuffed himself in the driver's seat while Peter sat beside him, Davila on his lap.
As they drove, the captain gave instructions. "There is a flask of whiskey beneath your seat. Drink from itâboth of youâand splash a little on your clothes."
They turned onto a paved boulevard and soon were stopped by the striped boom of a guard station. Thorkildson rolled down his window. "Pretend you are sleepy with drink, both of you."
Davila took Peter's arm and wrapped it around her narrow waist. Then she leaned back against his chest, her soft hair brushing against his lips. Peter let his head loll to the side, eyes narrowed to slits so that he could watch.
The guard approached Thorkildson's window, rested his forearm on the car's roof then squatted. "Morning, captain. I see you have the company car again." His Irish brogue was as thick as old Eamon's.
The captain's beard twitched with a half-hearted smile. "Nordstar puts its money where it counts."
The guard leaned in, eyed Peter and Davila and sniffed the air. "Crew?"
"One of them."
The guard smiled. "How many passengers shall I mark down in the log?"
"Zero." Thorkildson handed over a stuffed envelope, doubtless cash.
Pocketing it, the guard stood upright, rubbed his hands together and affected a shiver. "I hope my hands don't shake when I'm writing in the log."
"What more do you want?" said the Captain.
"A proper heater for my guard booth."
"I already brought you one."
"It was shite."
"I'll talk to the harbormaster before we sail."
Apparently satisfied, the guard returned to his booth and raised the boom. The paved road continued through an industrial yard of corrugated metal buildings and shipping containers stacked two high. Painted blue or red, each bore the Nordstar logo, a capital N overlaid on a compass rosette. Rounding a corner, they could see the floodlit deckhouse of an enormous ship towering above the containers.
Thorkildson slowed the car and crooked his neck to look up through the windshield. "Vakker, ja?" She is called Gudrun. Christened in 2001. Strong bones. But I regret that you will not see more of her."
He wrenched the steering wheel hard left, and the car careened through a narrow gap. Immediately, they emerged onto an open space, a wide pen walled off by stacked containers. Arcing right now, they slipped through another narrow gap and skidded to a stop. The way ahead was blocked by the butt end of a single shipping container.
"Back up!" said Peter.
Thorkildson reached for the glove compartment but froze before his beefy fingers could touch the latch.
"Don't move," said Davila. She jammed the muzzle of her pistol into his ribs.
He raised his big hands as far as the roof would allow. "Hva faen!"
"Where are you taking us?" she said.
"I am trying to take you to your quarters."
"You said we were to be in the cargo hold."
"With the cargo. Not in the cargo hold. The Gudrun is a container ship. She has no hold. Now please!"
Davila nodded her chin at the glovebox. "Go on."
Gingerly, Thorkildson opened it and retrieved what looked like a remote-control garage door opener.
Davila withdrew her pistol and returned it to its ankle holster.
The captain clicked the button, and the shipping container's twin doors opened, swinging slowly outward. He eased the car forward, and they bumped over a stubby ramp before penetrating the container's lighted interior.
The rear half of the shipping container had been walled off to form a living compartment roughly fifteen feet long, eight feet wide, and eight feet high. A pair of fold-down bunkbeds hung from the right-hand wall. Secured to the opposite wall were a desk, a chair and mini-refrigerator. A combined shower-and-toilet stall occupied the back-left corner. A ventilation unit clung to the ceiling.
Thorkildson handed the remote-control device to Davila. "I will strap down the car before your container is loaded. Once I shut the outer doors, do not open them until you are on the ground in Trondheim."
"How will we know?" asked Davila.
"You will know. There is food and drink in the refrigerator."
"How long will the passage take?"
"Twenty-six hours, longer if there is weather."
She gave the captain a little bow. "We're grateful to you and your people."
He reached into his pocket. "You will need these."
Davila received two small foil packets. "What are they?"
Peter took one from her. "Scopolamine patches. Put one on now so it'll have time to kick in."
The captain nodded. "Akkurat. The crane operator may not place your container amidships, so if the seas are heavy, it could get rough for you. And your container will be placed on top."
"On top?" said Davila.
He smiled. "You want to breathe, no? Wish us good weather." Then he turned and left.
An earsplitting clang announced the crane's hookup. Instantly, Peter and Davila were thrown to the floor, pinned there by the container's rapid ascent. Now they seemed to be falling, their bodies momentarily light. Then with a echoing gong, their container crunched into place.
Davila retreated to the corner behind the bunks and sat on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, face buried.
Peter opened the mini fridge to a bottle of sparkling wine, some hard cheese, a box of crackers and a half-eaten smoked sausage. He took the bottle and held it up. "We should try this."
"Are you trying to make me sicker than I already am?"
"No. A little alcohol can help in rough seas."
She looked up. "Are they going to be rough?"
Peter released the latch on the lower bunk, and it swung down, chains jerking taught against the combined weight of a mattress, a heavy wool blanket and a thick nylon restraining belt. "Looks like it."
They drank from plastic cups and nibbled at the cheese and crackers. For a while, all they could feel were the fine vibrations of coastal wavelets transmitted up through the Gudrun's hull and the containers beneath them. But soon the vibrations grew stronger, coalescing into a deep, rhythmic sway. They had struck open water.
Captain Einar Thorkildson stood alone on the bridge with a mug of hot coffee, watching through the long bank of windows as an autumn squall whipped the sea into foam-crested swells. The first mate was still in the head shitting off whatever he had eaten the night before while on shore leave. But they were right in the slot, the Faroe-Shetland Trough, all systems green, no traffic ahead or astern for fifty nautical miles.
The radio crackled to life.
This is Norwegian SSB marine network with a bulletin from ICPO office in Oslo. Interpol NCB London asks for all commercial ships originating in ports within the British Isles to be on the lookout for passengers or stowaways meeting the following description: male, one point eight meters, muscular build, light skin, brown hair, brown eyes; and female, one point six meters, athletic build, olive skin, black hair, brown eyes, possibly injured or with a limp. Wanted in connection with multiple murders in London area. Considered armed and dangerous. May be heading to ports northâ
Thorkildson switched off the radio and returned to his vigil at the rain-streaked windows. The Gudrun crested another swell, and he braced himself, one hand on the rail, the other clutching the coffee mug to his chest. She bottomed out hard, bow lights drowning beneath the icy surge, sputtering back to life, then drowning again, over and over.
Peter awoke to near complete darkness. A single point of red light shone above, like a distant star. It took a moment to realize that it was the power indicator on the ventilation unit just above his head. He lay on the top bunk wrapped in a heavy wool blanket. His stomach lurched as the ship crested another wave, his body floating up against the restraining belt then sinking back into the mattress.
It was then he noticed Davila next to him. She slept fully clothed on top of the blanket, crammed between Peter and the cold container wall, arm hooked through the restraining belt. Her raven hair glinted in the red light.
Peter unbuckled the restraining belt, sat up, and extracted the blanket from beneath her. She mumbled something incoherent, turned away and curled up. Peter pulled up the blanket and fastened the restraining belt around them both. Then he let the waves rock him back to sleep.
He awoke to warm lamplight. Gone was the ship's relentless heave. So too was Davila. Peter propped himself up just as Davila emerged from the shower stall wearing nothing but her black cargo pants and a sports bra. Peter could not help but notice the long, dark surgical scar tracing an arc between the ribs on her left side. "What happened?" he said.
Startled, she turned away and hastily slipped on her black T-shirt. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to be alone. I wasâ"
"Oh, don't worry about that. I meant your . . . never mind."
"My scars?"
"It's none of my business."
She sat down on the edge of the bottom bunk, just out of Peter's view. "It is your business."
"What do you mean?"
"I also lost my father."
"Oh. I'm sorry. What happened?"
"Gryphus murdered him. The night he took the Ramallah Ossuary."
Peter draped himself over the edge of the bunk. "Your dad was part of that?"
She sat with her head bowed, hands folded in her lap. "He led the team who was to buy back the Ramallah ossuary that night in the desert. And I was with him. I saw the ossuary with my own eyes. I touched the bones inside. They were wrapped in the most beautiful material I'd ever seen. It was as blue as a summer sky, but in the moonlight, it shimmered like water. I've never stopped thinking about it."
"What was it?"
"I wish I knew. The next thing I remembered, I was lying face down in the sand. Someone rolled me onto my back. I saw his face, his eyes. They were the color of honey." She drew in a shuddering breath. "Then he shot me."
"Jesus."
"I don't remember how many times. I just remember I was drowning in the sand. The desert has a taste, you know. It tastes like iron, like blood. I remember the sound of helicopters and the sensation of floating above the desert. Then I awoke in hospital. Three weeks had passed. They said it was a miracle I survived. The Iraqi patrol that came across our party nearly mistook me for one of the dead."
"Is that why you have a limp?"
"If the bullet had gone a millimeter to the right, I would have been completely paralyzed."
"Was it Gryphus?"
"Yes, but I didn't know it at the time. When I was well enough to leave hospital, my surgeons gave me something." She opened her right hand, and to Peter's surprise it held a tiny metal charm, the same one she had showed him in London. "They found this inside me."
"Inside you?"
"Stuffed into one of my wounds." She clenched it in her fist. "Gryphus thought I was dead. Now I'm the only one alive who knows his face."
_______________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 27!
We finally learn what's driving Davila's obsession with the Ramallah Ossuary and her fear of Gryphus.
This chapter is dedicated to @DasCopy for coming up with the brilliant idea of restraining belts.
I'd love to hear your thoughts.
-Frode
Video:Â https://youtu.be/NE_ri8PkihE