The Maltese Incident Page 8

  “Will that mean that people can’t call me Knucklehead?”

  “I called you Mister Knucklehead. See how much I respect you?”

  “After I got out of the Navy, a group of politicos wanted me to run for Governor of New York. I thought about it for a while but took a pass. What you’re suggesting is different—a popular election of a man who holds a technical leadership job. Besides, for an election to mean anything, it’s got to be possible for somebody else to run. Do you have anyone else in mind who could take my job?”

  Meg moved closer to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. Damn, this woman knows how to get my attention.

  “That’s the point, Harry. Randy wants you to be acknowledged as our leader. Again, I remind you of our bizarre circumstances. He wants people to have a stake in the ship. God knows, unless we can find a way back to where we came from, our lives will hit the reset button. Eventually, as we’ve discussed, we’ll move to land. We’ll need some form of governance—with a strong, thoughtful leader in charge—a hero like you.”

  Meg walked over to the coffee station and poured a couple of mugs. I could tell she was giving me time to think.

  “Democracy is a great thing, Meg, but it depends on the kind of group. No military organization, for example, is run like a democracy. It’s like, ‘here’s your leader, salute him.’ And the same goes for private business. With Malta Investments, sure there’s a board, but Randy makes all sorts of unilateral decisions. And he was picked by the board, not by popular vote of the company’s employees.”

  Meg looked down at the deck. She was obviously planning her next debate point.

  “So how about a proclamation, Harry?” Meg said, with her talented voice of compromise.

  “Maybe at one of our general meetings Randy will ask for a ‘vote of confidence’ for our captain. I don’t know if you’re aware how much people love and respect you. You know how much I love you because I tell you all the time. With the people aboard, you’re one popular guy, especially after I told them about the book that discusses your heroism in the Gulf. And by the way, I’m sure you’ve noticed that the people on this ship are smart. They know a good leader when they see one, and they definitely have one in you. So, how’s that for a compromise? Randy will propose a proclamation of appreciation for Harry, our fearless leader. Now I’ve got to convince Randy that we should go for a proclamation rather than a vote. But looking down the road, we’ll need some sort of elected government after we move ashore. You know, consent of the governed and all that. I think you will make a perfect mayor.”

  I could see where Randy and Meg are going with this. They’re trying to make the best decision for the entire ship. I should have been flattered, but I just felt plain awkward.

  “Did Randy put you up to this?”

  “Of course. Randy knows how much I love you, and he figured I should open the subject. So is it a deal?”

  “Deal. Do you promise not to call me Knucklehead?”

  “You have my solemn promise, Dickbrain.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I almost signed the passenger manifest as “Buster” when I boarded the Melody of the Seas last week. Instead, I signed as George Atkins, one of my aliases. The ship is still docked in Lisbon and I sat in a café going through news clippings. It’s amazing how many clues come from newspaper articles, a lesson I’d learned over the years. A good thing Lisbon is a cosmopolitan city with English language translations in most of the big papers. I paged through the International New York Times, formerly known as the International Edition of the New York Times, preceded by the International Herald Tribune. It’s always my favorite when I travel. Thank God, the owner of the magazine café is a pack rat and I have over six months of back issues to peruse. “Holy shit,” I said out loud, which I followed with an apology to an elderly couple sitting near me. An article had just caught my attention.

  “A Series of Strange Ocean Incident Startles Authorities”

  The New York Times

  by Jonathan Golding

  “Portuguese authorities in Lisbon just announced that a 43-foot pleasure yacht was attacked by unidentified marine life and sank. The boat, a luxury trawler manufactured by Grand Banks, was found on the seabed in 200 feet of water off the coast of Portugal in the Azores. The partial remains of two human beings were found near the boat’s wreckage. The vessel had a large hole in its hull and strange teeth marks were found all over the boat. One tooth was recovered, measuring a foot in length. It appears to be a shark’s tooth, but according to a paleontologist from the American Museum of Natural History, its size suggests that it belonged to a Megalodon, a prehistoric shark that grew to over 60 feet in length. The paleontologist, Dr. Max Feigenbaum, told the Times that he had investigated other reports of giant sharks, all of which occurred in the Azores off Portugal. According to eyewitnesses, a huge beast rammed a cruise ship and an American destroyer, but it did no damage. A photograph showing the giant shark leaping out of water was taken by a lookout on the Melody of the Seas, a cruise ship. According to Feigenbaum, scientists thought the Megalodon had been extinct for millions of years. He called the sightings, ‘A historical breakthrough in paleontology.’ Dr. Feigenbaum has set up a research office in Lisbon, Portugal.”

  It’s time to talk to this guy, I thought. I looked in my notes on my cellphone. The address of Feigenbaum’s temporary office was a couple of blocks from the café. I still had no idea what a giant shark, prehistoric or not, could have to do with the disappearance of the Maltese, but it’s my job to think of myself as a flat-foot investigator. I never saw a clue look me in the eye and say, “Hi, I’m your clue.”

  So, I put on my bullshit detecting cap and walked toward Feigenbaum’s office. I had befriended the owner of the café and he let me put my stack of newspapers in a back room. From my previous dealings with scientists, I know that there’s one thing they like as much as grant money, and that’s publicity. When I tell him I’m a magazine reporter, he won’t shut up.

  ***

  “Good morning. I’m Philip Thompson,” I said, using yet another of my aliases. “I’m a reporter with The Investigator, a new magazine that examines strange subjects. I’d like to speak to Dr. Feigenbaum.”

  As I expected, Feigenbaum swung open the door and almost sprinted across the room to shake my hand. He escorted me into the main research office to show me his team at work.

  “Welcome to the Megalodon research team, Mr. Thompson,” said Feigenbaum, grinning like a kid at Christmas. He turned to the people in his office. “Everybody, this gentleman is a reporter for a new magazine called The Investigator. He’s researching the Megalodon sightings. Mr. Thompson, I’m not sure we can answer all of your questions, but we’ll try.”

  I started asking questions of the six people in the room. I could tell that Dr. Feigenbaum was enjoying every minute of it.

  “We even employ a young man, Peter Franklin, who’s a photographic expert,” Feigenbaum said. “He verified that every photo of the shark is authentic.”

  Franklin looked at me as if he knew me. I then recalled that I once used Franklin on a terrorism investigation to verify photos.

  “What did you say your name was?” Franklin asked.

  “Thompson, that’s Philip Thompson.”

  The guy looked confused, as if he didn’t really buy my identification.

  “Hey, Max,” a young American woman said to Feigenbaum, “maybe we should refer Mr. Thompson to that nut case who keeps telling people that he saw a ship disappear.”

  Max furrowed his brow. He didn’t want to lose his new publicity source.

  “What nut case?” I blurted. “Did you say he claims he saw a ship disappear?”

  “Angela,” said Feigenbaum. “That man is quite insane. Let’s not waste our guest’s time with him.”

  “That’s okay, Dr. Feigenbaum,” I said. “I often get great quotes from crazy people. Where can I find this guy?”

  “He works at Silva’s Boatyard just two block
s from here,” Angela said. “His name is Alfonso Avila. He has partially gray hair, speaks perfect English, and is really a nice guy, if a bit nuts. He lived in the States for most of his life. After his parents died, he decided to move back to his native Portugal. I guess he’s somewhere in his late 40s.”

  ***

  After my meeting with the Megalodon team, I walked to Silva’s Boatyard a few blocks away. The yard was large, about two acres, and housed some of the most beautiful yachts I’d ever seen. This is no small-time operator, I thought. I asked for Alfonso Avila and was directed to a man who was just about to leave the yard. I identified myself (my fake self) and invited him to lunch. He agreed, without enthusiasm.

  “Sure,” Avila said, “I’ll have lunch with you, but I warn you, journalists are not my favorite people. I’ll explain later.” He told me to call him Al.

  After we finished lunch, I gently asked Al about his claim of having seen a ship disappear.

  “Al, I’ve heard that you witnessed something strange about a ship steaming in the Azores. Do you care to comment for The Investigator?”

  “Why not? You’ll learn why they call me Crazy Al.”

  “Your English is perfect, Al, I don’t mind saying. If I detect any accent at all, it sounds like Brooklyn. You make my job as an American reporter a lot easier.”

  “Well, I lived in the States for 40 of my 49 years, and I’m still an American citizen. I grew up in Brooklyn and graduated from Brooklyn Tech. By the way, my friend, you can cut the bullshit about being a magazine reporter. You’re either CIA or FBI or both.”

  “How did you know that? Not that I’m admitting it.”

  “I spent 20 years with the American ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence. That’s where I get my pension income. I retired with the Navy rank of commander. So, I’m a detective like you, which is why I can spot you a mile away. Also, as we were waiting for our food to be served, I Googled The Investigator on my cellphone. It doesn’t exist, which is fine by me. I feel more comfortable talking to spies than the press. You’re much more honest than reporters. You can ask me anything you want. Crazy Al is at your service.”

  “Please call me Buster. Al, you embarrass me, or maybe I’ve embarrassed myself. As you know from your experience I can’t go into much detail about myself. Yes, I am a CIA agent, not a magazine reporter. But tell me something. After your years in government investigation, what are you doing working in a boatyard?”

  “I’m the majority owner of Silva’s. The other partners like to keep my ship-disappearing story quiet. You know, Crazy Al and all that—not good for the boating business. Would you buy an expensive yacht from a nut? So, I’m doing what I love, which is hanging around boats and the water. I guess you want to know how I got my nickname. To get right to the point, yes, I did see a ship disappear—not sink, but disappear. I was transporting a boat from Santa Maria, one of the Azores islands, to deliver it to our yard here in Lisbon. We get to sell a lot of almost-new boats here. Some people with too much money in their pockets go out and buy an expensive yacht and then give up on boating after a couple of trips. One of the boats in the yard we originally sold new, and now it’s listed for sale for the fourth time, and it only has 50 hours on the engine. Like I said, I love boats and the water, and I take jobs that I would normally farm out to a contractor or an employee. By the way, I‘m licensed as a captain by the United States Coast Guard. Check it out.”

  “I will.”

  “Fucking spook,” Al said with a laugh. “So, I was cruising in the 45-foot Hatteras when I came upon a beautiful ship named Maltese. It was after nine at night and dark, but the lights on the Maltese brightened things up. I cruised about 300 feet abeam of the ship on its starboard side. I actually had a radio chat with the captain on the bridge.”

  “Did you record the conversation, Al?”

  “No, I didn’t. I had no reason to. In the middle of our conversation, all hell broke loose, or at least that’s how I perceived it. The area around the ship suddenly became bright daylight. It’s hard to describe the event, especially because my heart was in my mouth when it occurred. Then I heard a thumping and rumbling coming from the ship’s hull. I dropped the microphone, then picked it up to make a distress call to shore. I was amazed that I heard nothing coming from the Maltese. I shouted Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, the international distress signal. Before my call was answered, the bright daylight surrounding the ship became dark again—real dark because there were no lights from the ship. I’ll admit that I was scared shitless, as we would say in the States.

  “Assuming that the ship had sunk, I turned my boat toward her last position to cut through the wave that would be created when she went down. But there was no wave. The water was calm just like it was when I first saw the Maltese. The fucking thing just disappeared—not sank—just vanished from sight. At least I had the presence of mind to take an electronic fix, which I’ll happily share with you. I continued to Lisbon, calling the Portuguese Coast Guard, the police, and just about anybody I could think of. I wasn’t acting very professionally because I was totally freaked out. How the hell can a ship disappear?”

  “And for simply reporting what you saw, you got the nickname, Crazy Al?”

  “No, that was after the press got involved. An enterprising reporter from the International Times did some digging after our interview. About two years before the Maltese Incident, as it’s come to be called, I wrote a novel, a lifelong dream of mine. In the novel, The Punishing Sea, a ship sank. It didn’t disappear without a trace like the Maltese, it fucking sank in a storm. But the asshole from the Times saw an angle to sell newspapers. ‘Crazy Al, the storyteller’ was born. Word went through the publishing community that I made up a story about a fake event to sell my book. Of course, I didn’t do that, but my book took off like a rocket. In retrospect it would have been a good idea to make up the incident just to sell books. So that’s my story, Crazy Al’s story, and I’m sticking with it.”

  “Al, you said that you took a navigational fix. Did you share it with the authorities?”

  “I gave it to anyone who expressed an interest. I know that the US Coast Guard and the US Navy launched a search and rescue operation centering on my coordinates, but they found nothing. That only further enhanced my reputation as Crazy Al.”

  “So. you’re the guy FBI Director Watson was talking about when she said she heard about a guy who saw the Maltese disappear. Have you gone back to the location yourself?”

  “No fucking way. I haven’t gone beyond the breakwater since the event. My love of water is now restricted to bays, rivers, and lakes.”

  “Al, have you heard about the sightings of that gigantic shark?”

  “You’d have to be dead not to. It’s all over the news. But what does a shark have to do with the Maltese Incident?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m searching for clues, as I’m sure you can appreciate. The most recent news is that a 43-foot pleasure boat was attacked and sank, and four people were killed.”

  “That story gets me sick,” Al said. “Silva’s Boatyard is the local dealer for Grand Banks trawlers. I personally sold the boat to Steve and Grace Michaels. Really nice couple. They were looking forward to Steve’s retirement and spending time on their beautiful trawler. What a fucking way to die.”

  “It’s only a clue, and I don’t know where I’m going with it. Al you’ve been tremendously helpful. Chances are strong that I may be in touch in the future. Anything else you’d like to add?”

  “Yeah, I read all about Harry Fenton, the skipper of the Maltese. One of my partners served with him in the Navy. He’s a hell of a guy from what I hear. Too goddam bad to lose a good man like him.”

  “You’re right, Al. Fenton is, or was, a hell of a guy, and he’s the main reason I’ve been assigned to this case. The president himself is quite fond of Harry Fenton.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Meg, Randy, and I sat in Randy’s office for one of our many planning meetings. We lik
ed to meet in Randy’s office because it was large and had a pleasant view of the ocean.

  “Wacky Bob Flowers approached me two days ago,” Randy said. “He wants to meet with us to go over some ideas he’s had.”

  “Hey, Randy, we shouldn’t call him Wacky Bob,” I said. “The guy’s got one hell of a brain. What’s his official title?”

  “Chief Science Advisor. A lot of people think he’s a bit nuts because he sits alone staring into the distance for hours at a time. But I think he’s a solid character and is probably smarter than anybody else on the ship. Whenever Malta invested in a technology-based corporation, Bob would tie the company’s people in knots with his due-diligence questions. If he wants to talk about something, we should listen.”

  “Bob Flowers is here,” said Randy’s assistant. “He said he’s responding to your call.”

  “Good morning, Captain Fenton, Mrs. Fenton, Mr. Borg,” Bob said.

  “Relax with the formalities, Bob,” I said. “Randy, Meg, and Harry will do. So, Randy says you want to share some ideas with us.”

  “I may have figured out a way for us to get back to where we came from,” Bob said.

  The room was silent except for Meg’s coffee cup smashing to the deck. Randy handed Bob a cup of coffee but his hand was shaking so much that half of it spilled. Bob began to wipe the coffee off the table with a napkin.

  “Hey, Bob, fuck the coffee,” I said.

  “You’ll have to pardon Harry’s language, Bob,” Meg said. “But I must agree with him—Fuck the coffee and tell us about your idea for returning home.”

  “We got here for a reason,” Bob said, “and I don’t mean anything philosophical. We came to our state of affairs because something happened to the ship. Remember the deep darkness turning to daylight and the rumbling along our hull? Those events signified that something was happening, but we didn’t know what. I think I’ve figured out what it was. It’s frustrating without Google and the Internet to consult when you have a question. Therefore, I had to go from memory. People wonder why I’m often so quiet, but that’s because I’m blessed with a thing called eidetic imagery, better known as a photographic memory. My brain files things that I’ve read, seen, or heard with the efficiency of the hard drive on a computer. But for a subject I didn’t actively study, it sometimes takes a while for the images to pop up. That’s why you see me sitting and staring a lot. I had never experienced that night-to-day phenomena, not to mention the rumbling along the hull, but I did recall reading about similar events. Once I remembered what I read, the memories flowed like water. I finally pieced together enough information from my different recollections to come to a conclusion.”